SMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 

1980 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


n 

D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 
D 

D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur6e  et/ou  pellicul^e 

Cover  titio  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int^rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajout6es 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  dtait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmdes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl6mentaires: 


L'institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6td  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 


I      I    Coloured  pages/ 


D 


V 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 


n    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 

I    ~>    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
I V  I    Pages  d6color6es,  tachet6es  ou  piqudes 

n    Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d^tachdes 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  indgale  de  I'impression' 

Includes  supplementary  materia 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 


I      I    Showthrough/ 

I    ~]    Quality  of  print  varies/ 

r~^    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  filmies  d  nouveau  de  fagon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


0 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqud  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

V 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

ils 

lu 

lifier 

ne 

age 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Izaak  Walton  Killam  Memorial  Library 
Dalhousie  University 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  col^sidering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Izaak  Walton  Killam  Memorial  Library 
Dalhousie  University 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  l'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimde  sont  film^s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  ^^-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmds  A  des  taux  de  r6duction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  filmd  d  partir 
de  I'angle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m6thode. 


ata 


elure. 


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2 

3 

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2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

M^ 


"  Hjavon  ^er  ru^^2  ^txix  ftn^  focc, 
(^n^  Sranft  ^er  ftgure'B  efen&er  groce. 


—  Canto  IV. 


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♦   ♦   ♦   A  l^omanee  of  pathetdand. 


BY 


/ 


HENRY  FAULKNER  DARNELL. 


AUTHOR   OF 


'A  NA  TIOlSl'S  THANKSGIVING,"  "  SONGS  OF  THE  SEASONS," 
"  PHILIP  HAZELBROOK,"  &>€. 


publishers  : 

MacCalu  &  Company,  237-9  Dock  Street, 

Philadelphia. 


13^1. 


t  I 


1 1  ■. 


y 


Entered,  accord'ing  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1891,  by 

Henry  Faulkner  Darnell, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


DEDICATION. 


TO   A    CHILD-FRIEND. 


Come  out  of  the  Past,  little  maiden, 

Just  as  I  knew  thee  of  old, — 
A  vision  of  childish  beauty, 

All  lovely,  half  coy,  half  bold  ; 
With  a  golden  g-lory  about  thee 

In  thy  tresses  floating  free, 
And  thy  dark  brown  eyes  all  beamingr 

With  the  spiiit  of  mischievous  glee. 

Come  out  of  the  Past,  my  darling, 

For  the  Present  is  all  too  sad, 
And  there's  little  left  in  the  world  now 

To  make  the  spirit  glad  ; 
But  one  old-time  glance  of  your  eye,  dear, 

And  one  tender  touch  of  your  hand, 
Would  come,  like  the  perfume  of  flowers. 

O'er  a  waste  and  weary  land. 


Come  out  of  the  Past,  my  child-friend, 

If  only  for  one  brief  hou::* ; 
Be  to  me  all  you  were,  dear. 

When  first  I  felt  your  power  ; 
Weave  but  once  more  around  me 

The  tender,  magical  spell 
That  compassed  my  willing  spirit 

With  the  chains  it  loved  so  well. 


DEDICATION. 

Come  out  of  the  Past,  little  maiden, 

Just  as  you  used  to  bo, 
And  take  once  more  in  the  gloaming: 

Your  old  place  on  my  knee  : 
List,  dear,  to  another  story. 

As  you  loved  to  do  of  yore, 
Heed  not  the  undertone,  dear. 

From  a  heart  too  often  sore. 

Alas  !  for  earth's  purest  treasures, 

That  scenes  and  hearts  must  change  ; 
And,  in  life's  sad  transmutations, 

Familiar  thing-s  grow  strange. 
As  the  bud  opens  into  the  blossom, 

So  maturity  follows  yout!". ; 
But  where,  in  the  waste  of  the  Future, 

Is  the  fruitage  of  love  and  truth  ? 

Alas  I  that  the  little  maiden 

Must  grow  into  woman  and  wife, 
And  I  go  lonelier  downward 

The  shadier  side  of  life. 
We  cannot  set  back  the  hands,  dear. 

That  move  o'er  the  dial  of  Time  ; 
Or  summon  again  the  sunshine 

That  hath  passed  to  another  clime. 


Then  stay  in  the  Past,  my  child-friend, 

A  memory  tender,  and  fair ; 
Lest  the  chilling  blasts  of  the  Future, 

Or  the  Present  with  its  glare, 
Congeal  the  warm  tide  of  affection 

That  flowed  so  full  and  free. 
Or  dry  up  that  love's  pure  lountain 

Thy  presence  awoke  in  me. 


KINDESLIEBE. 


RESUME. 


THE  Vicomte  de  Luys — a  young  French  nobleman 
of  wealth  and  distinction,  and  of  somewhat  ad- 
vanced political  and  religious  opinions — by  his  marriage 
with  a  young  lady  of  high  birth  and  great  beauty,  incurs 
the  jealousy  and  hatred  of  a  powerful  kinsman,  high  in 
the  favor  both  of  the  Court  and  the  Church. 

Being  accused  of  heresy,  in  order  to  escape  a  lettre  de 
cachet  he  is  compelled  to  fly  the  country.  His  lands  are 
confiscated,  and  his  infant  heir  falls  into  the  hands  of  his 
enemies ;  but  eluding  their  pursuit,  he  places  his  young 
wife  in  concealment  and  leaves  his  native  land,  hoping 
that  in  a  little  while  the  storm  will  have  blown  over,  and 
he  may  be  able  to  return  to  her  with  safety. 

Finding  refuge  in  a  retired  village  amid  the  Lower 
Alps,  he  endeavors  during  his  stay  among  them,  to  im- 
prove the  lot  of  the  simple  inhabitants ;  and  finally  loses 
his  life  in  the  effort  to  rescue  the  victims  of  a  fearful 
avalanche  which  has  desolated  almost  the  entire  valley. 


KKSUMK. 


Marie  de  Liiys,  his  wife,  wearying  at  last  of  her  con- 
finement and  solitude,  sets  out  in  search  of  her  lost 
husband  and  child.  Hefore  her  steadfast  purpose  prisons, 
convents,  hospitals,  all  yield  her  admittance. 

f'or  a  time  her  search  is  vain;  but  at  Icnjith  in  the  sick 
ward  of  the  Convent  Orpl  anage  at  Drc'pignc  she  discov- 
ers her  lost  child. 

This  aflfectinfj  scene  is  witnessed  by  the  Lady  Abbess, 
to  whose  care  the  child  had  been  entrusted.  After  a 
severe  conflict  within  herself,  the  child  is  spirited  away, 
and  the  poor  mother  goes  forth  into  the  world  again 
more  hopeless  than  ever.  The  Lady  Abbess,  however, 
does  not  betray  her  secret. 

Reaching  the  Alnine  village  which  had  been  the  scene 
of  her  husband's  heroic  death,  she  finds  his  "nameless 
grave,"  the  whole  story  of  his  courage  and  devotion 
being  narrated  to  her  by  a  young  girl  to  whom  he  had 
shewn  kindness,  and  with  whom  he  had  left  the  proofs  of 
his  identity. 

After  passing  some  years  in  this  remote  village — during 
which  period  many  journeys  were  undertaken  with  a  view 
to  the  discovery  of  her  child — she  comes  to  the  town  of 
Stoltzenberg-am-Rhein,  at  the  season  of  the  Annual 
Fair. 

Here  her  sympathy  is  excited  by  the  pitiful  story  of  a 
young  mother  dying  in  her  confinement.  In  ministering 
to  her,  she  discovers  that  she  is  the  young  bride  of  her 
long-lost  child,  who,  having  in  his  youth  escaped  from 
his  captors,  had  crossed  the  borders  of  France  and 
entered  the  German  army.    Rising  in  the  service,  he  had 


■1 


KKSUMK. 


5 


attracted  the  notice  and  j;aincd  tlie  affection  of  one  of  the 
youn^  princes,  in  consequence  of  which  he  had  been 
made  a  captain  in  the  Royal  Guard. 

In  this  position  he  wins  the  heart  of  the  fair  and  gentle 
Margarethc,  daughter  of  the  proud  and  powerful  13aron 
Rudersdorf.  Regardless  of  everything  but  their  own 
happiness,  they  fly  from  the  Court  and  are  secretly 
married. 

Ruined  and  disgraced,  the  young  husband  dies  in  pov- 
erty and  obscurity.  The  child-wife  lingers  only  to  give 
birth  to  an  infant  daughter,  and  to  die  in  the  arms  of  her 
husband's  mother,  who  is  thus  at  last  rewarded  by  the 
acquisition  of  the  "last  link"  that  binds  her  to  earth, 
with  all  the  necessary  evidence  to  establish  the  child's 
identity. 

Resenting  the  treatment  to  which  her  son  had  been 
subjected  by  its  lord,  and  uncertain  as  to  her  future 
course,  she  yet  decides  to  remove  to  Rudersdorf.  Here, 
the  Baron's  attention  is  singularly  directed  to  the  child  ; 
and — on  the  sudden  demise  of  the  now  aged  Marie  de 
Luys— she  is  adopted  by  him,  as  one  thrown  friendless 
and  forlorn  upon  the  world. 

Eventually  her  real  lineage  is  discovered,  and,  in  the 
sunshine  of  the  child's  love  and  devotion  to  him,  the 
Baron's  heart  blossoms  out  again  in  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy to  all  around  him.  The  reign  of  tyranny  and 
harshness  is  past— the  fruit  of  blighted  hopes  and 
wounded  affection— and  Rudersdorf  once  more  is  the 
scene  of  prosperity  and  peace. 


CONTENTS. 


CAXTO. 

I.  A  Summer- Day,  . 

II.  An  Oread, 

III.  A  Day-Uream,     . 

W.  The  Mountain- Cot, 

V.  La  Belle  F^rance, 

\'I.  Marie  de  Luys, 
VII.  The  Lady  Abbess, 

VHI.  The  Secret  Discovered,   . 
IX.  Les  Basses  Alpes, 

X.  The  Wayside  Cross, 

XI.  Lconie  Duvergne, 

XII.  The  Stranger-Friend, 

XIII.  La  Gorge  de  St.  Barthelemi, 

XIV.  The  Nameless  Grave, 
XV.  The  Waterfall,     . 

XVI.  The  Annual  Fair,     . 

XVTI.  The  Baron,  .... 

XVIII.  Margarethc,      , 

XIX.  Edelweiss 

XX.  At  Rest 

XXI.  The  Dream  Fulfilled,  . 

XXII.  Sunset,     .... 


I'ACJE. 

9 

15 

20 

27 

38 

43 
52 
62 

75 

81 

90 

98 

104 

1 12 

118 

130 

138 
144 

153 
160 
169 
'83 


•r^,r:^f":""^ 


Cciwio  I. 


A  SUMMER-DAY. 


Errata  ^k  ),^ 


p.  41,  line  16,  for  "  umvrung^'  read   '^iitirnfijj^.^' 

P.  42,  line  8,  for  "  Justi  e,''  read  '«  jHsfuy.  " 

P.  128,  line   16,  for  ^' dears'"  read  ''hares.'' 

P.  132,  line  15,  for  "  7'^n' "  read  ''  stretit^^f/i  aiit/y 

P.  133,  line   13,  for  "./.f"  read  "  SAe." 


A  solemn  hush  lay  on  the  air, 
As  if  a  presence  floated  there, 
And,  wide  diffused,  the  sense  of  rest 
A  heavenly  visitant  confessed. 
No  flutt'ring  sound  of  leaf  or  wing 
Chimed  with  the  dripping  of  the  spring; 


lO  KINDESLIEBE. 

No  wild-flower  stirred  on  slender  stem, 
Nor  shook  its  starry  diadem. 
All  motionless  the  lily-bells, 
Exhaling  fragrance  from  their  cells. 
Beneath  their  footsteps,  all  unheard. 
The  zephyrs  left  the  leaves  unstirred. 
The  gentle  murmur  of  the  bees 
Amid  the  blooming  flowers  and  trees 
An  invitation  seemed  to  ease, 
As  lazily  thev  come  and  go, 
Yet  loth  their  labor  to  forego. 
By  distance  softened,  came  the  song 
Of  streams  that  wind  the  rocks  among, 
Or  over  moss  and  pebbles  stray, 
Sweet-singing  on  their  devious;  way. 


i 


The  winding  valley  lay  below. 
Bathed  in  the  sun's  meridian  glow ; 
Where  through  the  rich  and  level  meads 
The  river  flows,  all  fringed  with  reeds, 
Or  overhung  with  foliage  rank, 
Trailing  from  either  verdant  bank. 


O'er  all  the  scene  the  quiet  steals, 
And  ev'ry  sense  the  influence  feels. 
The  laborer  leans  upon  his  plough 
And  wipes  the  moisture  from  his  brow, 


A   SUMMER-DAY. 

While  passive  stand  the  panting  steeds 
And  quaff  the  fiagrrnce  of  the  meads. 
The  shepherd,  prone  upon  his  back, 
Pursues  his  dreams  beneath  the  stack, 
As  fumes,  like  those  from  Lethe's  bowl, 
Steep  in  forgetfulness  his  soul. 
Mis  flocks,  unwatched,  refuse  to  stray, 
But  gather  where  the  shadows  play. 
His  reedy  pipe  beside  him  lies 
As  fast  each  blissful  moment  flies ; 
It  lacks  the  breath  once  wont  to  fill 
And  wake  the  echoes  of  the  hill. 


II 


A  dozen  rods  beneath  the  feet, 
Just  where  two  roads,  converging,  meet, 
Is  seen  the  straggling  village  street. 
With  many  a  cottage,  small  and  white, 
'Mid  bowering  trees  half-hid  from  sight, 
And  clust'ring  'neath  an  ancient  spire, 
Like  children  'round  an  aged  sire 
To  catch  the  benediction  shed 
Upon  each  bowed  and  rev'rent  head. 

The  tortuous  path  which  climbs  the  ridge 
Diverges  hard  beside  a  bridge — 
A  structure  rude — which  spans  the  stream 
W'th  many  a  pier  and  stalwart  beam, 


12 


KINDESLIEBE. 


And  gives  a  passage  free  and  wide 
Athwart  the  broad  and  ample  tide. 
Beyond,  emerging  from  the  green 
And  undulating  vale,  is  seen 
An  ancient  pile,  whose  towers  gray 
Have  held  with  undisputed  sway 
That  fair  domain  for  ii-any  a  day. 
Yea,  centuries  have  come  and  gone. 
Yet  stoutly,  still,  it  holds  its  own ; 
For  never  has  a  stranger  hand 
Detached  one  single  rood  of  land. 
The  weapon  which  the  prize  had  won 
Preserved  it  still  from  sire  to  son, 
And  'mid  the  castled  keeps  most  famed 
Not  one  with  Rudersdorf  was  named. 


On  those  grim  walls  had  warders  kept 
Their  vigils  true,  while  ladies  slept. 
Forth  from  those  towers  thro'  many  a  night 
Had  blazed  the  ruddy  beacon-light, 
To  call  the  vassals  from  their  farms 
And  hard-earned  rest  to  fly  to  arms ; 
While  through  those  pierced  turrets,  high, 
Had  flashed  the  dread  artillery. 
Drawbridge  and  moat,  now  all  o'ergrown. 
Their  proper  uses  once  had  known; 


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'  &n  f Rofie  grim  iwciffc  Ra^  txlar^f re  ftopf 
^Beir  ttigtfe  frue,  toBifc  fa^t>D  efepf." 

—  Canto    1. 


M 


A   SUMMER- DAY.  1 3 

And  oft  in  many  a  sudden  fray 

Had  safely  barred  and  kept  the  way, 

To  hold  victorious  foes  at  bay 

Until — responsive  to  the  flame 

Which  gleamed  aloft  —the  rescue  came. 

Oft  had  those  terraced  lawns,  so  green, 
Been  witness  to  some  bloody  scene  : 
Oft,  where  those  crystal  fountains  pour 
Their  silver  streams,  had  human  gore 
Sprung  freely  from  the  hearts  of  all 
At  Honour's  or  at  Friendship's  call ; 
Or  when  some  last  and  desperate  stand 
Was  made  for  king  and  fatherland. 

Within,  in  spite  of  all  the  change 
Which  makes  things  most  familiar  strange, 
The  Past  had  left  full  many  a  trace 
Which  time  nor  taste  could  quite  efface. 
Some  stain  upon  the  threshold  fair ; 
Some  dent  upon  the  oaken  stair ; 
A  rusted  brand,  or  broken  shield, 
Or  battle-axe  none  now  could  wield, 
Would  tell  of  some  illustrious  page 
Which  glorified  the  feudal  age, 


14 


KINDESLIEBE. 


When  might  was  right  o'er  all  the  land- 
When  honors  fled  the  weakling's  hand, 
And  o'er  life's  wild  and  troubled  sea 
Gleamed  the  fcir  star  of  chivalry. 


"BPW   II'    -»»«^ 


Canio  II. 


AN    OREAD. 


Beside  the  rocky  ledge  that  bound 
The  narrow  path  that  upward  wound, 
There,  half-reclining  in  the  shade 
By  level  boughs  of  hawthorn  made, 
Lay,  dreamily,  a  little  maid. 
Eight  summers  fair  had  o'er  her  flown, 
Eight  winters'  snows  had  come  and  gone 
Only  to  find  her  sweeter  still — 
That  tender  flower  beside  the  hill. 


Her  slender  figure,  lightly  posed, 
Her  native  ease  and  grace  disclosed : 
Her  hands  were  clasped  beneath  her  head- 
Her  only  pillow,  lightly  spread. 
Upon  her  lap,  her  broad  hat  set, 
Held  flow'rets  fair — wild  mignonette, 


l6  KINDESLIEBE. 

With  many  a  child  of  copse  and  dell, 
And  those  which  bloom  on  rock  and  fell. 
Here,  creepers,  too,  and  tendrils  fair, 
Comminglinpf  with  the  blossoms  rare. 
Proclaimed  the  graceful,  childish  art 
In  which  she  late  had  played  her  part ; 
'Till,  drooping  'neath  the  midday  heat, 
She  ceased  to  weave  the  garlands  sweet. 

So  rich  in  native  loveliness. 
But  little  need  had  she  of  dress. 
Which  oft,  for  meretricious  ends, 
Impairs  the  charms  which  Nature  lends. 
Her  scanty  frock  scarce  reached  the  knee, 
And  left  the  neck  and  shoulders  free  ; 
Bare  were  her  limbs,  and  bare  her  arms. 
Displaying  all  their  dimpled  charms : 
Bare  were  the  rosy,  blue-veined  feet, 
To  climb  the  hills  so  light  and  fleet, 
Though  near  her,  by  the  rivulet. 
The  tiny  shoes  and  hose  were  set ; 
Not  such  as  village  maidens  wear. 
But  fashioned  wilh  a  tend'rer  care. 
And  telling,  'mid  this  rocky  waste. 
Of  loving  thought  and  purer  taste. 


AN   OREAD.  17 

From  ofif  her  forehead,  broad  and  fair, 
All  richly  streamed  her  ruddy  hair  ; 
Like  the  first  tint  on  autumn  leaf, 
Or  like  the  yellow  grain  in  sheaf; 
Or  like  the  sunrise  when  its  gold 
Is  tinged  with  colors  manifold. 
Her  eyes,  beneath  their  lids  concealed. 
Kept  their  blue  depths  all  unrevealed. 
The  slender  outlines  of  her  cheek 
Refinement's  subtle  grace  bespeak  ; 
While  on  her  brow  there  sat  enshrined 
That  perfect  purity  of  mind 
That  knows  no  contact  with  mankind. 

'Tis  passing  strange,  how  oft  we  find 
In  spots  where  Nature's  most  unkind, 
A  something  still  of  heavenly  birth 
To  bless  and  beautify  the  earth ; 
Which  charms  the  view  where'er  we  rove, 
From  earth  beneath  or  skies  above, 
And  testifies  that  "  God  is  love." 


Some  lichen  clinging  to  the  rock — 
Sole  witness  of  the  earthquake's  shock — 
Which  rears,  amid  the  calm  and  storm. 
To  heaven  its  huge  fantastic  form  : 


1 8  KINDESLIEBE. 

Some  quaint,  distorted,  ancient  tree. 
To  which  the  moss  clings  lovingly  : 
Some  brooklet,  leaping  into  sight 
And  sparkling  in  its  devious  flight : 
Sunbeams  that  flicker  'mid  the  shade 
By  rocks  and  trees  commingling  made  : 
Some  tuneful  bird  with  plumage  bright. 
Or  insect  flashing  in  the  light : 
Some  tiny  flower,  like  mountain  maid, 
That  shuns  the  meadow  and  the  glade. 
Content  to  trust  her  modest  charms 
To  the  wild  tempest's  rugged  arms. 

E'en  so  in  humblest  homes  we  see — 
Where  the  stern  hand  of  Poverty 
Condemns  to  plain  and  scanty  fare, 
And  robs  of  many  a  blessing  rare — 
A  true  refinement  linger  still. 
Beyond  the  vulgar  worldling's  skill. 
The  cultured  eye  of  Taste  to  fill. 

What  forms  of  beauty  and  of  grace — 
What  charms  of  figure  and  of  face 
The  artist's  eye  may  often  trace 
In  some  secluded,  homely  place  ! 
Some  Dryad  in  the  tangled  wood : 
Some  Naiad  by  the  spring  or  flood : 


■-s^r-""' 


AN   OREAD.  19 

Some  fair  Rebecca  by  the  well : 
Some  Helen  in  the  bosky  dell : 
Some  barefoot  gypsy  by  the  way, 
Or  some  Maud  Muller,  raking  hay  : 
Some  peasant-girl  the  hearth  beside, 
Whom,  for  true  worth  and  beauty's  pride, 
A  prince  or  peer  might  make  his  bride  ; 
Whose  spirit  pure,  and  queenly  grace, 
Might  well  adorn  earth's  highest  place. 


» 


* 


Such,  Fatherland,  the  blossoms  fair, 
Which  crown  thy  homes  with  beauty  rare; 
Which  in  thy  forests,  dark  and  deep. 
Forth  from  the  cabin  thresholds  peep  ; 
Which  by  thy  castled  crags  and  streams 
Shed  on  fond  hearts  their  sunny  beams. 
And  make  them  glow  with  love  and  pride 
In  lowly  vale — on  bleak  hillside. 
Such,  graced  with  modesty  and  truth, 
And  filled  with  tenderness  and  ruth. 
Have  blest  thee  in  the  ages  past — 
Shall  blegs  thee  still,  as  time  doth  last ; 
Shall  spread  thy  fame  o'er  land  and  sea 
And  make  thee  mother  of  a  free, 
And  brave,  and  noble  progeny  ! 


tanio  III. 


A  DAY-DREAM. 


How  long  she  slept  she  could  not  tell, 
So  soft  and  sweet  the  witching  spell. 
How  fast  the  fleeting  moments  flew, 
Her  charmed  senses  never  knew  : 
Onward  they  sped  with  pinions  light, 
Leaving  no  trace  to  mark  their  flight, 
As  when  the  last  expiring  motion 
Of  ripples  dies  upon  the  ocean. 

And  now,  as  o'er  the  lovely  sleeper 
And  o'er  the  scene  the  rest  grows  deeper. 
It  seems  as  if  a  charm  were  laid 
By  magic  power  on  stream  and  glade. 
And  all  the  powers  in  earth  and  air 
Were  lulled  into  a  slumber  fair; 
And  she— though  little  rustic  maid, 
In  simple  russet  garb  arrayed — 


A    DAY-DREAM.  21 

Had,  like  the  fabled  princess,  been 
The  reigning  beauty  of  the  scene. 

But  o'er  her  senses,  steeped  and  bound 
In  slumber's  witchery  profound, 
There  comes  a  strange,  mysterious  so;and  : 
A  rustling,  as  of  garments  bright — 
A  beating,  as  of  pinions  light; 
Whilst — soft  as  starlight  on  the  lake. 
Or  zephyr  stealing  thro'  the  break ; 
And,  light  as  dewdrops  on  the  grass. 
Which  gleam,  like  diamonds,  as  we  pass — 
There  seeks  the  portal  of  her  ear, 
In  tones  most  musically  clear. 
Inspiring  more  of  awe  than  fear, 
This  sweet  refrain : 

SONG. 

"  Little  maid,  with  deep  blue  eyes — 

Blue  as  heaven  above  thee. 
Leading  ever  to  the  skies 

All  who  truly  love  thee ; 
Little  knowest  thou  thy  power 

To  revive  and  cherish 
Love,  like  torn  and  trampled  flower. 

Doomed  to  fade  and  perish. 


""■""▼S-VT^ 


22  KINCESLIEBE. 

"  Like  the  little  beam  that  glances 

Through  the  cottage  door, 
Tremulously  moves  and  dances 

On  the  oaken  floor : 
Like  the  summer  bird  that  singeth 

To  the  sons  of  toil ; 
Like  the  op'ning  bud  that  bringeth 

Hope  of  future  spoil : 

"  Thine  to  bear  to  home  and  hearth 
Peace,  and  hope,  and  beauty  ; 
Thine  to  show  to  those  on  earth, 

*  Love  the  highest  duty.' 

Thou  who  cheer'st  the  lone  hillside, 
Charm  now  the  castle's  sadness ; 

Scatter  blessings  far  and  wide — 
Fill  the  land  with  gladness. 

"  To  the  Baron,  sad  and  lonely, 

Daily  bring  a  flower  ; 
His  bruised  spirit  needeth  only 

Love's  reviving  power. 
I,  it  is,  who  bid  thee  stay  not — 

I,  in  Paradise ; 
Be  to  him  what  I  now  may  not — 

*  Kleine  Edelweis.' 


I 


A    DAY-DREAM.  23 

"  Thou  must  know  no  doubt  nor  fear, 

Modest  little  maiden ; 
I  will  surely  linger  near 

With  sweet  comfort  laden. 
Deem  not  that  his  heart  is  cold — 

Cruel  or  untender ; 
Let  love  make  thy  spirit  bold 

Service  sweet  to  render. 

"  'Neath  the  desert,  parched  and  weary, 

Freshest  springs  abide; 
Under  shadows,  dark  and  dreary, 

Purest  flow'rets  hide : 
Pain  and  sorrow  oft  may  harden 

TendVest  hearts  and  true, 
Until — token  sweet  of  pardon — 

Heaven's  light  shineth  through. 

See,  the  Baron  doth  appear, 

Modest  little  maiden ; 
Give  to  him  thy  off'ring  dear, 

With  its  incense  laden. 
If  he  look  into  thine  eyes, 

With  the  love-light  beaming. 
As  if  searching  through  the  skies 

In  his  silent  dreaming  : 


24  KINDESLIEBE. 

"  If,  as  one  whose  heart  is  riven, 
He  shall  silent  stand ; 
If  he  sigh,  and  look  to  heaven — 

Take  thy  tender  hand ; 
Know  that  I  am  still  beside  thee — 
'  Kleine  Edelweiss ' — 
To  his  love,  that  I  confide  thee — 
I,  in  Paradise." 

The  voice  is  still.    The  slumb'rer  wakes, 
As  daylight  thro'  her  vision  breaks. 
Each  sense,  benumb'd,  regains  its  sway ; 
The  ling'ring  echoes  roll  away. 
And,  mingling  with  the  airy  tide, 
Are  wafted  upward  far  and  wide. 
Her  eyelids  quiver,  then  reveal 
The  awe  and  v  onder  they  conceal. 
With  throbbing  heart  and  flushing  cheek 
All  powerless  to  think  or  speak — 
Observant,  rapt  and  motionless. 
She  sits,  like  ancient  prophetess, 
Awaiting  in  the  sacred  shrine 
The  awful  oracle  divine. 

Whether  some  power  of  earth  or  air 
Had  left  its  mystic  impress  there ; 


ir  •T' 


A    DAY-DREAM.  2$ 

Some  fay  or  sprite,  in  ling'ring  near. 
Had  breathed  the  music  in  her  ear ; 
Or  whether,  as  she  hghtly  slept. 
Some  subtle  influence  round  her  crept, 
And — Reason,  for  the  time,  dethroned — 
Each  wand'ring  sense  no  sov'reign  owned, 
But,  mingling  their  fantastic  hues, 
A  light  delusive  did  diffuse. 
In  which,  distinctly  seen  and  heard. 
Came  vision  bright  and  whispered  word ; 
She  questions  not. 

One  startled  look 
She  casts  around  on  bank  and  brook — 
Adown  the  path  and  on  the  fell, 
Whose  rugged  form  she  knows  so  well — 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  sense. 
Picture  of  startled  innocence ; 
Or  like  some  nymph  beside  the  stream, 
Awakened  from  a  blissful  dream 
By  stranger  step  or  presence  rude 
Which  dares  to  break  her  solitude  : 
Then,  starting,  with  a  single  bound 
She  lights,  like  bird,  upon  the  ground. 

No  single  instant  does  she  stay  ; 
But,  darting  cross  the  rocky  way, 


26  KINDESLIEBE. 

Climbs  deftly  up  the  further  bank, 
O'erhung  with  verdure  rich  and  dank, 
Just  where  adown  the  mossy  walls 
In  countless  tiny  waterfalls 
The  brooklet  glides  from  stone  to  stone 
In  sweet  and  endless  monotone. 
Nor  does  she  cease  her  rapid  flight 
Until — a  dear  and  welcome  sight — 
Within  an  aged  granddame's  arms 
She  refuge  finds  from  all  alarms. 


■ 


/ 


tanio  IV. 


THE  MOUNTAIN-COT. 


Beneath  where  splintered  rocks  protrude 
Some  hand  had  raised  a  cabin  rude  ; 
Though  partly  hut,  and  partly  cave, 
It  yet  a  homelike  shelter  gave, 
And  lent  to  age  and  childhood  sweet 
A  peaceful  and  secure  retreat. 

The  walls  were  formed  of  turf  and  stone 
Where  the  dark  rock  gave  bulwark  none. 
O'erhead,  the  sloping  rafters  bore 
A  roof  of  thatch ;  the  earthen  floor, 
Though  cold  and  bare,  was  trim  and  neat 
And  daily  trod  by  patient  feet. 
The  door,  which  all  could  ope  at  will. 
Betrayed  a  certain  rustic  skill, 
As,  free,  between  its  posts  it  hung 
And  loosely  on  its  hinges  swung ; 


28  KINDESLIEBE. 

And,  guiltless  all  of  bolt  or  stay, 
Ne'er  failed  the  wand'rer  on  his  way. 

In  summer,  o'er  the  rude  porch  meet 
The  climbing  roses  fresh  and  sweet, 
With  honeysuckle,  rich  and  rare. 
Dispensing  perfume  on  the  air. 
In  winter,  when  upon  the  hill 
The  murmur  of  the  brook  is  still. 
And  all  the  fragrant  blossoms,  strewn — 
Like  cherished  friends,  all  dead  and  gone- 
No  longer  cheer  the  cabin  lone  : 
When,  yielding  to  the  northern  blast. 
The  trees  their  leafy  crowns  have  cast ; 
Save  the  dull  firs  and  steadfast  pines. 
Whose  changeless  aspect  ne'er  declines : 
When  snow  upon  the  path  lies  deep. 
And,  week  by  week,  the  rugged  steep 
Is  trodden  by  no  friendly  form 
With  word  of  cheer  from  out  the  storm  : 
Then  hath  the  outcast  ne'er  in  vain 
Pleaded  his  hunger,  cold,  or  pain  ; 
Or  failed  within  its  walls  to  find 
A  shelter  from  the  piercing  wind. 
Too  oft  less  cruel  than  his  kind. 


THE    MOUNTAIN-COT.  29 

How  is  it  that  in  homes  like  this 
We  find  so  much  of  truest  bh'ss  ? 
A  peaceful  calm — a  cheerfulness, 
Which  stately  mansions  rarely  bless  ? 
How  oft  from  poverty  will  spring 
Content  which  riches  cannot  bring  ! 
How  oft  the  mealiest  hut  doth  know 
True  charity's  most  generous  flow  ; 
And  ready  gift  from  peasant's  board 
Shame  the  slow  alms  from  Dives'  hoard  ! 
Is  it  that  they  who  sparest  live 
Learn  best  how  sweet  it  is  to  give  ? 
That,  aye,  the  self-indulgent  soul 
Gains  smallest  good — gives  meanest  dole  ? 

Alike,  in  sunshine  or  in  cloud — 

In  summer's  wreaths  or  winter's  shroud, 

The  little  hut,  so  lone  and  still. 

Maintained  its  place  beside  the  hill. 

Th'  unflinching  rock,  like  friend  well  tried. 

Defense  and  comfort  still  supplied  : 

It  broke  the  fury  of  the  blast, 

And  in  its  arms  embraced  it  fast ; 

."Bore  snow  and  rain  upon  its  crest, 

And  gave  it  warmth  from  out  its  breast ; 

And,  when  upon  the  thirsty  glade 


'•fz-  -vrr  ''  in7""""":ii-;"^'».'''.  -»^.  t:.-  :r  r"'.-:  <>,  ;V'^'»'fr^.''^  V^^w  r   'Ty.  v 


30  KINDESLIEBE. 

Th  i  torrid  breezes  hotly  played, 
A  coolness  lent  and  grateful  shade. 

Retired,  the  simple  dwelling  stood 
A  stone-cast  from  the  mountain  road, 
Whence  but  a  devious  path  upwound 
Where  crags  and  tangled  shrubs  abound. 
Its  presence  nothing  did  disclose 
B!'t  curling  smoke- wreaths,  which  uprose 
And,  circling  in  the  atmosphere. 
Betrayed  some  habitation  near. 

The  cabin-rooms  were  two  in  all, 
With  rustic  porch  instead  of  hall ; 
The  outer,  though  of  higher  state — 
,      Parlor  and  kitchen — knew  no  grate. 
Yet  from  that  low  hearth's  genial  blaze 
Came  warmth  and  cheer  in  dreariest  days; 
As,  flick'ring  with  uncertain  gleam, 
It  shadows  chased  from  beam  to  beam. 
No  need  to  tell  the  treasures  scant 
Which  yet  did  meet  each  actual  want ; 
The  table,  and  the  pallet-bed 
With  snowy  coverlet  o'erspread ; 
The  few  rush  chairs,  the  chimney  shelt 
Which  bore  its  proud  display  of  delf ; 


THE  MOUNTAIN-COT.  3 1 

Not  all  of  modest  earthenware, 
But  here  and  there  some  relic  rare, 
Speaking  of  unforgotten  times 
To  the  sad  heart,  like  distant  chimes. 

Here,  'neath  the  shelter  of  the  hill. 
Two  forms  had  found  a  haven,  still — 
The  one  in  childhood's  sweetest  prime, 
The  other  bowed  by  care  and  time — 
Unnoted  save  by  that  keen  Eye 
Whose  piercing  gaze  naught  can  defy ; 
But  which  alike  on  each  doth  fall. 
And  lets  its  mercy  light  on  all : 
Not  only  on  the  giant  oak, 
Which  proudly  scorns  the  thunder-stroke; 
But  on  the  wild-flower,  by  the  lea 
Content  to  nestle  timidly. 

What  marked  resemblance  oft  we  see 
Betwixt  old  age  and  infancy ! 
When  not  one  line  of  care  is  traced, 
Or  every  furrow  is  effaced : 
When  all  is  bright  with  life's  first  bloom. 
Or  with  the  light  beyond  the  tomb : 
When  reigns  the  calm  the  strife  before, 
Or  the  sweet  peace  when  conflict's  o'er. 


32  KINDESLIEBE. 

E'en  so,  between  old  age  and  youth — 
The  two  extremes,  where  love  and  truth 
Are  found  with  least  of  earth's  alloy, 
And  meet  with  least  of  life's  annoy — 
The  confines  of  life's  narrow  sea, 
Embosom'd  in  eternity — 
We  see  full  oft  a  trust  complete — 
Communion,  perfect,  pure  and  sweet. 

And  thus  it  was  with  those  who  found 

A  home  within  the  narrow  bound 

Which  that  rude  peasant-hut  supplied, 

Safe  shelter'd  in  the  bleak  hillside. 

Despite  disparity  of  years — 

Childhood's  bright  hopes  and  age's  fears, 

It  seemed  as  if  no  earthly  strain 

Could  part  the  ties  which  held  these  twain. 

Each  to  the  full  tide  of  content 

That  filled  both  hearts,  all  willing,  lent 

Her  individual  complement; 

And  bore  her  share  to  that  sweet  whole 

Of  peace  which  reigned  in  either  soul. 

If  on  the  bowed  and  weary  head 
Time  had  its  hoar-frost  thickly  spread. 


THE   MOUNTAIN-COT.  33 

It  had  not  dimmed  the  fearless  eye 

Nor  marred  the  contour  of  the  face ; 
Nor  from  the  figure's  symmetry- 
Detracted  all  of  that  sweet  grace, 
Which  in  the  zenith  of  her  pride, 
Ere  she  did  reign  a  peerless  bride. 
Had  won  her  husband's  roving  eye 
To  life-long,  fond  idolatry. 

Like  some  rare,  graceful  column,  wrought 
By  tasteful  hand,  and  richly  dight, 

Which,  to  an  early  ruin  brought. 

Must  yet,  perforce,  but  charm  the  sight. 

And  even  in  its  ruin  show 

The  splendor  which  it  once  did  know ; 

So  every  look  and  gesture  told 

Of  former  state — of  lineage  old. 

And  rarely  failed  that  to  reveal 

Which  prudence  oft  would  fain  conceal. 

So  in  the  child,  low  at  her  feet, 

Whose  slender  arms  embrace  her  knee, 

A  charming  miniature  complete 
Of  one  who  smiles  on  her,  we  see; 

For  in  that  childlike  form  combine 

Distinctive  features  of  each  line 


34  KINDESLIEBE. 

Of  whose  commingled  progeny 
Sole  representative  is  she. 

Saxon  her  ruddy  hair  and  face, 
And  Frank  her  figure's  slender  grace, 
With  all  its  suppleness  and  ease — 
Her  sweet  and  winning  coquetries. 
She  had  her  mother's  orbs  of  blue, 

And  tender  heart  and  simple  faith ; 
Her  father's  spirit,  pure  and  true. 

Which  never  knew  dishonor's  breath ; 
Which  never  failed  a  friend  in  need. 
Or  sacrificed  his  fame  for  greed. 

But  spite  of  many  a  lingering  trace. 
As  oft  is  seen,  of  mingled  race ; 
And  spite  of  all  the  lapse  of  years 

And  furnace-fires  of  trial  and  pain, 
The  list'ner  in  the  child  appears 

Restored  to  youthfulness  again. 
While  in  the  matron,  sear,  we  see 
The  child  of  half  a  century. 

And  as  she  tells  her  simple  tale — 

With  cheeks,  now  flushed,  now  deathly  pale, 

With  catching  breath,  dilating  eye 

And  tones  of  deepest  mystery — 


/ 


I 


THE   MOUNTAIN-COT.  3  c 

The  hearer  feels  a  numbness  creep 

O'er  every  sense—through  every  h*mb, 

As  Eli  felt,  when  roused  from  sleep 
Within  the  sacred  temple,  dim, 

To  hear  the  youthful  prophet  tell 

The  awful  doom  he  knew  too  well. 

Perchance,  within  the  vision  bright      " 

She  sees  a  deeper  meaning  lie 

A  beam  from  Heaven  sent  to  light 

The  gloomy  path  of  destiny : 
A  message,  fraught  with  meaning  clear 
At  least  for  one  sad,  waiting  ear. 

Anon,  she  soothes  with  accents  kind 
The  tumult  of  the  troubled  mind. 

She  tells  how,  in  the  ages  past 

When  night  her  sable  mantle  cast 
O'er  all  the  world,  and  slumber  sealed 
The  eyes  of  men— had  God  revealed 
Unto  His  chosen  ones  of  old 
His  providences  manifold. 

She  tells  of  Bethel's  traveler,  lone, 
But  pillowed  on  the  dewy  stone. 
And  pictures  to  the  child's  rapt  sight 
The  glitt'ring  throng  of  angels  bright: 


, 


36  KINDESLIEBE. 

How  Joseph  read  the  will  divine 
In  Pharaoh's  lean  and  favored  kine : 
How,  led  by  dreams,  the  Virgin  mild 
To  Egypt  bore  the  Holy  Child 
Until  the  tyrant's  course  was  sped  : 
How,  o'er  the  martyr's  dying  head 
The  op'ning  heav'ns  their  glory  shed, 
Changing  his  last  expiring  cry 
To  highest  strain  of  ecstasy : 
How,  by  such  means,  the  Father  still 

His  children  guides  from  heav'n  above- 
Makes  them,  unconscious,  yet  fulfill 

His  marv'lous  purposes  of  love. 

And  as  the  throbbing  ocean  yields 

To  the  sweet  hush  of  eventide, 
Till  o'er  its  boundless  azure  fields 

The  boist'rous  waves  at  last  subside ; 
So  yields  the  child's  revealed  distress 
Beneath  her  voice  and  soft  caress. 
Inspired  now  with  purpose  high. 
As  conscious  of  her  ministry, 
She  seeks  once  more  the  rocky  way, 
Prepared  the  summons  to  obey. 

******* 


THE   MOUNTAIN-COT.  37 

Ah  !  blessed  faith  that  childhood  owns — 
Too  little  prized — too  early  lost  ; 

But  when  our  bread  has  turned  to  stones 
We  see  at  what  a  bitter  cost 

Was  bought  the  freedom  we  would  gain 

At  any  price  of  future  pain. 

Tis  only  when  upon  the  shoals, 

Or  when  the  deadly  reef's  in  sight, 

We  learn  the  need,  for  human  souls, 

Of  some  celestial  beacon  light, 

To  guide  us  through  the  billows'  strife 

To  haven  of  a  peaceful  life. 


Canto  V. 


LA  BELLE  FRANCE. 


Among  the  records  of  old  France — 
The  abode  of  genius  and  romance; 
The  ancient  home  of  chivalry 
And  grace  and  old-time  courtesy; 
Whose  varied  pages,  darkly  fair, 
Are  full  of  transformations  rare  ; 
Whose  glorious  victories,  grave  defeats, 
The  scroll  of  History  still  repeats — 
Among  those  records,  dread  as  night, 
Too  foul  to  bear  the  day's  clear  light, 
Is  that  which  tells  the  destiny 
Of  Vicomte  Floribel  de  Luys. 

The  victim  of  a  kinsman's  hate 

And  envious  spleen  and  jealous  rage. 

We  can  but  parallel  his  fate 

In  such  a  clime  and  such  an  age. 


V ' 


LA  BELLE  FRANCE. 

Arraigned  on  charge  of  heresy — 
The  vengeance  of  the  Papal  See 
Invoked  upon  his  guiltless  head, 
His  country  and  his  home  he  fled. 
Robbed  of  his  wealth  and  acres  fair — 
His  title-deeds  and  infant  heir, 
Only  at  peril  of  his  life 
He  found  safe  harborage  for  his  wife. 
Then  vanished  from  her  hiding-place, 
But  anxious  to  remov^  all  trace 
That  might  betray  the  chosen  spot 
And  make  her  sharer  of  his  lot. 


39 


* 


* 


* 


Marv'lous  the  history  of  that  land, 
Replete  with  contradictions  grand ! 
Renowned  alike  through  all  the  earth 
For  wildest  frenzy — lightest  mirth ; 
Prolific  in  the  arts  of  life. 
Yet  favored  scene  of  civil  strife ; 
Whose  children,  in  the  bitter  school 
Of  tyranny  and  long  misrule. 
Have  in  this  latter  century  known 
The  awful  fruit  of  ill  seed  sown ; 
Reaping  in  agony  and  tears 
The  harvest  of  a  thousand  years, 


40  KJNDESMEBE. 

And  in  the  purple  vintage  trod 
Beholding  the  avenging  rod 
Of  an  all-just,  all-seeing  God. 

"  How  long  ?  How  long  ?  "  The  cry  how  vain 
P>oni  spirits  chafing  'neath  the  chain, 
As  through  the  changeless  years  that  roll 
The  iron  eats  into  the  soul ! 
Till  bosoms  which  in  silence  bore 
Full  many  a  painful,  festering  sore 
Without  a  single  moan  or  plaint, 
Madden'd  at  length  past  all  restraint, 
Gave  to  a  fury,  too  long  pent, 
A  terrible  and  sudden  vent ; 
And  made  the  startled  sky,  serene. 
Witness  of  many  an  awful  scene — 
The  "  Commune  "  and  the  guillotine. 

How  sad  to  scan,  in  ages  dark. 

The  regime  of  the  "  grand  monarque  !  " 

Th'  exactions  of  the  old  "  noblesse ;" 

The  tyranny  without  redress  ; 

The  uncontrolled  licentiousness. 

Which  spared  no  home  in  search  of  prey 

And  flaunted  in  the  light  of  day : 

When,  fallen  from  her  high  estate. 

The  Church,  the  minion  of  the  great, 


LA    BELLE   FRANCE.  4 1 

No  more  to  virtue  sliclter  gave, 
But  trampled  upon  Freedom's  grave  ; 
And,  faithless  to  her  mission  high — 
Engine  of  bitter  cruelty — 
In  iron  fetters  bound  the  soul 
And  sought  the  conscience  to  control, 
Making  religion  in  each  eye 
Synonymous  with  tyranny. 

Who  can,  unmoved,  such  scenes  recall — 
Enough  the  stoutest  *^o  appall — 
Nor  feel  amid  the  gath'rmg  gloom 
Forebodings  of  approaching  doom  ? 
The  shadows  of  the  dread  Bastille  ; 
The  ghastly  horrors  they  conceal ; 
"  Lettres  de  cachet ;  '  the  noisome  cell ; 
The  nameless  grave ;  the  unj^rung  knell ; 
The  dungeon  floor,  thro'  long  years  trod ; 
The  fruitless  prayers  upsent  to  God ; 
The  deep-drawn  sighs ;  the  bitter  groans, 
Unheard  beneath  these  pond'rous  stones ; 
The  imprecations  loud  and  deep, 
Suppress'd  and  stifled  but  to  sleep 
Until  the  dawn  of  hope  should  break 
And  vengeance  overwhelming  wake  : 


KINDESLIKBE. 

Must  these  cry  ever  from  the  dust 
Nor  wake  a  retribution  just  ? 

Fearful  th'  accumulated  rage 

Thus  nursed  and  fed  thro'  many  an  age  ! 

Which  in  its  all-consuming  ire 

Distinguished  naught  'twixt  son  and  sire; 

But,  in  one  common  sacrifice 

To  outraged  Justice',  bitter  cries, 

Doomed  innocence'and  guilt  alike 
To  dungeon,  block  and  sword  and  pike, 
And  left  upon  the  land  a  stain 
Which  must  through  centuries  remain. 
Who  that  recalls  such  scenes  as  these, 
Birt  in  such  consummation  sees 
The  dire  effects  of  saddest  cause— 
The  breach  of  God's  and  Nature's  laws. 


^"-^sfffry 


Cdwio  VI. 


MARIE  DE  LUYS. 


Victim  of  cruel  tyranny, 
In  covert  lay  Marie  de  Luys, 
All  breathless,  like  the  hunted  fawn, 
Awaiting  freedom's  blessed  dawn. 
Some  time,  within  her  safe  retreat, 
She  bore  her  lot  with  patience  sweet. 
But  when  long  months  had  glided  by, 
Fretting  with  care  her  spirit  high, 
And  still  no  single  message  bore 
Its  comfort  to  her  bosom  sore 
From  him,  her  only  tie  to  life, 
She  wearied  of  the  endless  strife. 
She  dried  her  eyes  of  useless  tears ; 
Despair  grew  stronger  than  her  fears : 
And,  as  the  life-boat  trims  its  sail 
To  tempt  the  billow  and  the  gale 


rj-rjriww^^'^^rir^rnrr'ji 


44  KINDESLIEBE. 


But  little  need  to  seek  disguise 
To  render  strange  to  human  eyes 


I, 


Some  shipwrecked  mariner  to  save 

From  painful  death  and  watery  grave, 

She  left  her  haven,  safe,  to  seek —  f 

How  strong  is  faith  in  woman  weak  ! — 

Throughout  the  v/orld  with  effort  wild 

Some  tidings  of  her  spouse  and  child. 

Despite  the  Inquisition  dread — 

Despite  the  price  upon  her  head, 

With  instinct  true  and  purpose  high 

She  dared  th*  unequal  strife  to  try 

With  courage  born  of  agony.  / 

Ah  !  who  shall  tell  in  fitting  song 

Her  dauntless  courage — journeyings  long  ? 

The  bitter  cup  'twas  hers  to  drain 

Of  mingled  hardship  and  of  pain  ? 

The  burden  of  the  cross  she  bore — 

In  spirit  strong — in  body  faint — 
Nor  uttered  in  her  anguish  sore 

One  single  murmur  of  complaint? 
'Tis  not  alone  the  Master  sweet 
Must  tread  those  paths  with  bleeding  feet  ; 
But  in  each  human  life  must  be 
Some  semblance  of  Gethsemane. 


I 


k 


i 


I, 


I 


F 


! 
J* 


I! 


MARIE   DE    LUVS.  4$ 

The  reigning  beauty  of  a  court — 
•    The  queen  of  many  a  tilt  and  sport — 
The  youthful  maiden  in  her  pride — 
The  glittering  courtier's  peerless  bride. 
'Tis  not  alone  the  hand  of  Time 
That  marreth  beauty  ere  its  prime ; 
That  steals  the  fresh  cheek's  tender  bloom, 
And  leaves  the  pallor  of  the  tomb ; 
Blanches  the  locks  and  bows  the  frame, 
And  dims  the  dark  eye's  liquid  flame. 
Anguish  and  pain — consuming  cares 
Form  ordeal  more  cruel  than  "shares," 
O'er  which  the  patient  victim  trod, 
Appealing  from  mankind  to  God. 

Thus,  in  her  agonized  distress, 

But  little  of  youth's  loveliness 

Clung  to  the  sad,  bereaved  form, 

As  forth  she  went  to  brave  the  storm 

Of  human  hate  and  human  guile. 

And  set  against  each  Papal  wile 

Her  woman's  purpose,  strong  and  true — 

Let  come  what  may,  to  die  or  do. 

Who,  in  that  weak  and  shrunken  frame — 
That  cheek  to  which  no  color  came ; 


46  KINDESLIEBE. 

That  silvering  and  disheveled  hair, 
Once  dark  as  night  and  dressed  with  care ; 
Those  sunken  eyes  whose  proud  light  shone 
Amid  the  brightest  round  a  throne ; 
That  humble  garb,  in  which  arrayed. 
Her  way  throughout  the  land  she  made — 
The  fair  and  high-born  bride  could  see 
Of  Vicomte  Floribel  de  Luys  ? 

Full  oiten,  helpless  and  forlorn. 
She  started  forth  at  early  dawn 
Persistent  in  her  lofty  quest, 
Hope  still  alive  within  her  breast. 
Full  often,  with  the  setting  sun — 
Another  long  day's  journey  done — 
She  paused,  a  suppliant,  before 
Some  kindly  peasant's  humble  door, 
To  gain  the  needed  food  and  rest 
For  body  faint  and  soul  opprest. 
Though  still  sufficed  her  little  hoard 
For  simple  lodging — scanty  board. 
But  rarely  would  her  host  receive 
The  modest  sum  her  pride  would  give  : 
She  bore  her  passport  in  her  face — 
Her  sadden'd  air  and  nameless  grace ; 
And  frequent  kindnesses,  unbought, 


1 

i 


I 


MARIE    DE    LUVS. 


47 


As  tribute  to  her  grief  were  brought, 
While  oft  was  benediction  sought. 

How  many  a  town  and  village  street 
Was  trodden  by  those  weary  feet 
Within  the  space  of  one  brief  year 
Will  ne'er  be  told  in  human  ear. 
The  foes  with  which  she  had  to  deal 
Were  keen  and  cold,  as  polished  steel. 
And  knew  no  mercy  in  their  zeal. 
The  quenchless  wrath  she  dared  to  brave 
Paused  not  at  confines  of  the  grave ; 
But  followed  on,  relentless  still, 
Lacking  the  power  but  not  the  will 
The  soul's  eternal  peace  to  kill. 

Like  one  of  old  who  dared  to  cast 
The  awful  thunderbolts  of  Jove, 
It  ruthless  sought  to  blight  and  blast 

The  sweetest  fruits  of  truth  and  love. 
The  dark  recesses  of  the  tomb. 
Round  which  the  flowers  of  pity  bloom — 
Which  hold  the  withered  hopes  of  years — 
If  consecrate  alone  with  tears, 
Could  guard  no  proudest  earthly  name 
Nor  shield  the  purest  earthly  fame ; 


48  KINDESLIEBE. 

But,  'neath  those  curses,  deep  and  dread. 
Gave  e'en  the  memory  of  the  dead — 
•  Condemned  through  all  posterity — 
To  never-ending  infamy. 

'Tis  wonderful  what  patient  faith, 

Allied  with  courage  firm  and  true, 
In  noble  life  or  constant  death. 

For  highest  ends  can  dare  and  do  ! 
When  in  our  erring  eyes  most  weak. 
It  seems  from  higher  source  to  seek 
A  strength  beyond  all  human  power,  | 

To  meet  the  crisis  of  the  hour ; 
And,  in  the  triumphs  it  achieves. 
Room  only  for  our  wonder  leaves. 

Witness  its  power,  ye  prison  doors  ! 

Behind  whose  bolts  all  hope  hath  fled ; 
Ye  cold  and  silent  dungeon  floors ! 

Which  echoed  to  her  gentle  tread. 
Witness,  ye  reeking  cells !  which,  sealed 
By  monarch's  signet,  yet  revealed 
To  her  keen  eyes  your  secret  woe 
And  made  her  pity  overflow. 
Witness,  ye  warders !  brave  and  stern, 
Whose  purpose  strong  no  foes  could  turn ; 


MARIE    DE   LUYS.  49 

Who — ev'ry  hope  of  safety  lost — 
Would  perish,  faithful,  at  your  post; 
Who,  proof  alike  'gainst  gold  and  fears, 
Were  melted  by  a  woman's  tears. 

Bear  witness,  too,  ye  convent  walls. 

And  silent  cloisters  pale  and  dim  ! 
Whose  tranquil  gloom  the  soul  enthralls, 

Where  falls  the  sound  of  vesper  hymn  : 
Where  many  a  storm-tost  soul  hath  found 

A  haven  from  life's  troubled  sea, 
And  in  devotion's  endless  round 

A  sweet,  if  dull,  monotony. 
Guarded  with  strict  and  jealous  care, 
The  timid  flock,  safe  folded  there — 
Condemn'd  to  utmost  privacy — 
Subject  to  closest  scrutiny — 
What  hope  of  access,  if  unmeet, 
Within  such  sacred,  still  retreat  ? 

Yet  hath  its  aspect,  gloomy — cold, 
No  terrors  for  a  spirit  bold. 
Since  in  the  strictest  devotee 
Still  lingers  something  womanly ; 
A  tender  pity  for  distress — 
Compassion  sweet  for  k  iieliness, 


5^  KINDESLIEBE. 

And  sympathy  for  cares  that  vex 
The  best  or  weakest  of  her  sex. 

And  so  it  is,  the  generous  heart 
Least  mindful  of  its  inward  smart— 
The  spirit  that  for  private  vice 
Demands  the  highest  sacrifice- 
Most  gently  deal  with  sin  and  woe, 
And  readiest  charity  bestow. 
Thus,  though  each  ward  all  rigidly 

Stood  forth  the  convent  lock  within, 
Would  Pity  turn  the  willing  key 

And  let  the  weary  wand'rer  in  ; 
Sole  refuge  there  in  all  the  world 
For  one  from  fame  and  fortune  hurled. 

Full  often,  as  a  pilgrim  saint— 

And  saint  she  was  in  very  deed— 
Or,  oftener,  as  a  wand'rer  faint, 

She  gained  relief  in  time  of  need. 
Sometimes,  but  as  a  child  of  shame, 

Admittance  only  could  she  find. 
Where  some  small,  faint  and  flickering  flame 
Of  hope  would  lead  her  eager  mind. 

Sinner  or  saint,  it  mattered  not 

Her  spirit  pure  knew  stain  nor  blot: 


MARIE    DE   LUYS.  5  I 

Alike  she  bore  the  look  of  scorn — 

The  rev'rent  gaze,  of  pity  born  — 

The  blessing  of  the  aged  priest — 

His  prayer  that.  "  from  all  sin  releas'd, 

Her  troubled  spirit  might  find  peace 

And  all  her  weary  wanderings  cease." 

One  purpose  only  in  her  mind, 

She  left  all  other  care  behind, 

And  entrance  only  sought  to  gain 

Where — living,  dying  or  in  pain^ 

In  the  loved  objects  of  her  soul. 

She  yet  might  find  her  hope's  bright  goal. 


tanto  VII. 


THE  LADY  ABBESS. 


The  ancient  village  of  Drepigne 
Lifts  from  the  vale  its  towers  gray 
Just  as  it  did  in  the  years  gone  by, 
Though  buorn  of  its  former  dignity. 
Like  warrior  old,  it  boasts  its  scars. 
Gained  in  the  endless  border  wars  ' 
Ere  it  fell  to  the  greedy  Franks  a  prey, 
Yielding  itself  to  a  stranger's  sway, 
Till  another  turn  of  Fortune's  wheel— 
Whether  for  woe,  or  whether  for  weal- 
Should  see  once  more  the  prize  restored, 
By  the  refluent  tide  of  the  Saxon  horde,' 
To  the  ancient  rule  of  a  German  lord. 

Little  of  state  or  grandeur  now 

It  boasts,  as  it  looks  from  the  gentle  brow 


THE    LADY    ABBESS.  53 

Of  the  swelling  hill,  on  whose  lowly  crest 
The  peaceful  walls  of  a  convent  rest. 
Endow'd  by  the  gift  of  a  perished  race, 
It  holds  within  its  close  embrace 
A  school  and  orphanage,  trim  and  neat, 
Where  shame  and  poverty  yet  may  meet, 
For  their  friendless  offspring,  with  safe  retreat. 
In  the  midst  of  this  fair,  sequestered  vale 
Where  rural  plenty  and  peace  prevail. 

The  earthen  ramparts,  long  o'erthrown, 

With  clinging  verdure  and  moss  o'ergrown, 

Furnish  a  pleasance  safe  and  meet 

For  lightsome  gambols  of  youthful  feet ; 

As  over  again,  in  mimic  show. 

The  lads  will  storm  from  the  moat  below — 

Now  a  tangled  mass  of  reeds  and  fern — 

The  crumbling  keep  where,  fierce  and  stern, 

The  deadly  conflict  once  did  rage 

In  those  border  fights  which,  many  a  page. 

Darkened  and  stained,  in  that  distant  age. 

A  ruined  chateau,  long  decayed, 
Still  lends  a  charm  to  the  verdant  glade : 
Its  princely  owners,  of  lands    jreft. 
Years  since  th*  ancestral  home  had  left ; 


54 


KINDESLIEBE. 


And — be  it  by  right,  or  be  it  by  guile — 

The  Church  now  owns  for  many  a  mile 

The  goodly  champaign,  wide  and  fair, 

Which  knows,  it  is  said,  no  living  heir; 

And  thus  it  is  that,  for  lands  and  gold, 

Few  do  a  richer  dower  hold 

Than  the  convent  and  school  of  the  "  order  gray" 

In  the  ancient  village  of  Drepigne. 


* 


Hard  by  the  old  gray  convent  wall, 
Under  the  poplars  straight  and  tall. 
Clad  in  her  sombre  garb  of  gray, 
The  Lady  Abbess  was  wont  to  stray 
In  the  deep'ning  shade  of  the  parting  day. 
Whether  she  simply  mused — or  prayed. 
Perhaps  she  herself  could  scarce  have  said, 
For  hither  and  thither  thought  will  fly. 
As  gossamer  floats  in  summer  sky — 
Now  uprising — now  descending — 
Feeling  ever  the  impulse  lending. 
'Tis  hard  by  simply  "  telling  a  bead  " 
Such  volatile  matter  as  thought  to  lead — 
Subject  to  every  kind  of  emotion — 
In  the  sacred  channel  of  deep  devotion. 


THE   LADY   ABBESS.  $5 

The  Abbess,  for  all  her  tranquil  mood, 
Was  yet,  we  know,  but  flesh  and  blood ; 
And  under  the  snow-white  bands  that  crossed 

Her  woman's  breast,  was  a  woman's  heart, 
Like  many  another,  tempest-tossed — 

Conquered,  it  may  be,  only  in  part. 
Fasting  and  prayer  will  curb  desire, 
Yet  still  will  smoulder  the  hidden  fire. 
Though  rarely  may  rise  its  potent  breath 
From  the  chamber  of  throbbing  flesh  beneath  ; 
For  the  Past  is  ever  hard  to  forget. 
And  it  needs  to  watch  by  the  embers  yet. 

Noble  in  mien  and  noble  by  birth, 
With  a  history  none  will  read  on  earth, 
Worsted  too  soon  in  the  early  strife. 
She  had  taken  the  vows  of  a  celibate  life. 
How  soon — how  late  the  yearning  came 

For  a  freedom  lost,  we  ne'er  may  know ; 
Since  never  yet  the  forbidden  flame 

Has  shed  on  her  path  its  lurid  glow. 
Quiet  and  cheerful,  she  wends  her  way. 
Bearing  her  burden  day  by  day : 
In  vigils  and  prayers  her  life  is  spent ; 
Scarcely  the  needful  care  is  lent 


56  KINDESMEHE. 

To  physical  ease  and  physical  health, 
For  body  and  soul,  and  talent  and  wealth 
Were  long  since  vowed  to  the  life  now  led — 
An  off'ring  fair  on  the  altar  spread ; 
And  of  all  the  "  order"  most  famed  was  she 
For  penance,  for  prayers,  for  charity. 

Is  it  she  never  dares  to  stay 
The  ceaseless  round  from  day  to  day  ? 
Is  it  she  fears  the  brief  release, 
Should  the  constant  strain  one  instant  cease 
And  leave  the  struggling  spirit  free  ? 
'Tis  well,  no  mortal  the  springs  may  see, 
And  that  mind  is  to  mind  a  mystery ! 
We  only  know,  what  all  knew  well — 
What  ev'ry  mother  her  child  would  tell ; 
That  over  mountam  and  over  moor, 
In  princely  hall  or  cabin  poor. 
There  is  not  one  but  holds  her  dear, 
All  thro'  the  country,  far  and  near ; 
And  never  ceases  to  bless,  and  pray 
For  the  saintly  lady  who  still  holds  sway 
O'er  the  convent  and  school  of  Drepigne. 

But  from  the  conclave  whence  bishop  and  priest 
Control  the  "  order,"  this  much  at  least 


THE    LADY   ABBESS.  57 

Had  managed  to  leak  from  some  cranny  out, 
And — as  such  things  are — was  wafted  about ; 
That  her  heart  was  all  too  tender  and  true 
For  many  a  work  an  abbess  should  do. 
She  might  lash  herself  with  a  scourge  of  steel, 
But  pity  for  others  she  yet  must  feel  ; 
She  listened  too  oft  to  the  tale  of  woe — 
Was  moved  too  soon  by  the  tear's  o'erflow ; 
She  let  the  sinner  too  lightly  depart, 
And  counted  as  penance  the  broken  heart ; 
That — whether  in  want,  in  sin,  or  shame — 
A  sister  was  yet  a  sister  the  same. 


Doubtless,  many  a  fitter  tool 

For  church  behest  and  convent  rule 

Could  readily  here  or  there  be  found, 

In  those  dark  days,  the  country  round ; 

And  more  than  once  was  the  question  mooted, 

"  Could  not  the  abbey  be  better  suited  ?  " 

But,  spite  of  a  frequent  check  and  frown, 

She  had  long  since  lived  such  efforts  down; 

Her  rank,  her  wealth,  her  spotless  fame, 

Had  proved  a  strong,  resistless  claim. 

And  left  her  supreme  in  her  calm  domain 

In  that  ancient  village  of  fair  Lorraine. 


58 


KINDESLIEBE. 


If  thus,  commercing  with  the  sky, 
There  would  yet  escape  for  earth  a  sigh; 
And  if  the  spirit  at  times  would  beat 
Against  the  walls  of  its  still  retreat ; 
None  but  itself,  wounded  and  sore, 
Could  tell  of  the  secret  pain  it  bore; 
For,  under  that  calm  and  peaceful  mien. 
Never  a  single  trace  was  seen. 
As  over  the  crater  the  grass  grows  green 
Where  Nature's  mightiest  throes  have  been. 
So  years  of  penance  and  vigil  had  press'd 
On  those  proud  features  their  stamp  of  rest. 


Saintly  Abbess  of  Drepigne, 

Thine  indeed  the  more  excellent  way ! 

More  truly  than  holy  bishop  or  priest 

Hast  thou  fathomed  the  mind  of  the  blessed  Christ 

The  God  who  suffered — the  Man  who  died — 

The  great,  true  Heart  of  The  Crucified. 

*******  1e* 

In  the  convent  chapel,  hoar  and  dim. 
The  nuns  are  singing  the  Vesper  hymn; 
Rising  and  falling  in  dirge-like  strain, 
The  holy  words  fall  clear  and  plain 
On  the  ear  of  a  wand'rer,  faint  and  lone. 
Resting  awhile  by  the  cold  gray  stont : 


THE   LADY   ABBESS.  39 

"  PRO  MISERICORDIA  SUPPLICIUM. 

"  Pater  potentissime — 
Jesu  carissime — 

Nostri  miserere ! 
Spiritus  almissfme-- 
Deus  sanctissime— 
Nostri  miserere  I 

"Judex  exorabilis — 
Salvator  amabilis — 
Nostri  miserere ! 
Consolator  mirabilis— 
Deus  laudabilis— 
Nostri  miserere ! 

ft 

"  Diurno  periculo — 
Nocturno  cubiculo — 

Nostri  miserere  I 
In  vitae  saeculo — 
In  mortis  articulo — 
Nostri  miserere ! " 

Like  voices  from  the  distant  Past, 
Those  holy  words  so  sweetly  sung, 

When  ev'ry  pulse  with  hope  beat  fast- 
When  heart  was  light  and  spirit  young. 


6o  KINDESLIEBE. 

What  are  the  echoes,  soft  and  low, 
They  wake  in  the  silent  depths  below, 
As  the  list'ner  hangs  on  the  dying  strain, 
Craving  those  liquid  notes  again. 
As  the  pilgrim,  parched,  on  arid  plain  ? 
Glist'ning  tears,  in  her  dark  eyes  shining, 

Gleam,  like  stars,  through  the  evening  haze. 
Telling  'mid  gloom  of  Hope's  declining 

Of  vanished  joys  cf  early  days. 

A  silent  foot-fall  upon  the  grass — 
A  shadow  upon  the  cold,  gray  stone ; 

A  sudden  thrill,  as  oft  will  pass 

When  the  spirit  feels  'tis  not  alone ; 

Accents  subdue  \  yet  sweet  and  clear, 

As  move  the  very  soul  to  hear ; 

A  kindly  hand  on  the  weary  head 

By  storms  so  cruelly  buffeted : 

"  Daughter,  the  evening  air  is  chill ; 

You  are  weary  climbing  the  rugged  hill. 

Rest  awhile  in  our  calm  retreat, 

And  find  in  our  convent  shelter  meet. 

You  are  spent  with  hunger-  move  with  pain, 

Unused,  no  doubt,  to  such  a  strain. 


"r- . 


Came  fi'fte  a  feni>er,  fioff  careaB." 

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THE   LADY   ABBESS. 


6l 


Too  slightly  fashion'd  your  tender  frame — 
Nay,  shrink  not !  I  ask  nor  state,  nor  name. 
By  no  such  coin  need  traveler  pay 
For  food  and  rest  in  Drepigne. 


'  »> 


Her  loving  speech,  like  Gilead's  balm. 

Falls  on  the  spirit,  faint,  which  hears ; 
Freighted,  it  seems,  with  a  holy  calm, 

Leaving  unstirred  the  jealous  fears. 
She  takes  the  hand — in  womanly  ruth 

Laid  on  her  weary,  drooping  head — 
Still  fresh  with  the  delicate  hue  of  youth, 

And  light  and  soft,  as  the  snow-flake  shed. 
Lifted  in  prayer,  or  laden  with  dole, 
It  bears  the  charm  of  a  loving  soul. 
Ne'er  had  it  needless  burden  laid, 
Nor  ever  a  sacred  trust  betrayed ; 
Those  aye  were  blessed  it  sought  to  bless, 
And  its  very  touch,  in  the  heart's  distress, 
Came  like  a  tender,  soft  caress. 


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t(xnio  VIII. 


THE  SECRET  DISCOVERED. 


A  child  of  sorrow,  want  or  shame — 

Unasked  her  lineage,  state  or  name— 

The  lady  Abbess'  wish  expressed 

Gains  for  the  wanderer  food  and  rest. 

"  Rest  ?  Rest  ?  "  Alas  !  Where  is  it  found  ? 

Not  in  the  convent's  endless  round 

Can  wifely  longing  be  supplied 

Or  a  mother's  yearnings  be  satisfied. 

Only  on  earth,  if  love  be  given 

Its  long-sought  prize:  if  not,  in  Heaven. 

Ah !  who  could  see  the  craving  look 
That  passionless  face  so  quickly  took. 
As,  under  the  shade  of  that  convent  gray. 
She  watched  th'  unconscious  babes  at  play, 


■"  •T' 


THE   SECRET    DISCOVERED.  63 

And  fail  to  tell  that  a  mother's  heart 

Beat  strong  and  wild  in  that  aching  breast, 

Which  never  should  see  its  longing  part 
Till  its  pulse  should  be  for  aye  at  rest  ? 

And  if  to  the  Abbess'  watchful  eyes 
That  sight  first  brought  a  mute  surprise, 
'Twas  changed  full  soon  to  a  glad  content ; 

For  a  sickness  fell  on  the  little  fold, 
And  soon  were  the  faithful  sisters  spent, 

Watching  alike  the  young  and  old. 
And  a  willing  helper  were  pleased  to  see 
In  such  a  dire  extremity. 

And  as  they  marked  her  patience  rare, 

Marvelous  skill  and  tender  care  ; 

The  magical  power  of  tone  and  touch. 

As  over  the  moaning  sufferer's  couch 

She  bent,  like  an  angel  of  peace  and  love 

From  the  heaven  of  mercy  and  grace  above ; 

None  but  acknowledged,  from  envy  free, 

The  tact  and  skill  of  Soeur  Marie; 

For  by  such  name,  and  such  alone. 

Was  the  stranger  guest  in  the  convent  known. 

And  still,  as  the  summer  grew,  the  heat 
On  those  rolling  plains  more  fiercely  beat. 


64  KINDESLIEBE. 

The  sluggish  winds  refused  to  blow 
From  the  distant  ranges,  capt  with  snow ; 
Nor  bore  to  the  parch -^d  lips  and  brow 
The  fresh  air,  never  so  craved  as  now, 
When  the  fever-fires  that  raged  beneath 
Withered  and  scorched,  like  furnace  breath. 
E'en  in  the  convent,  high,  and  free 

To  every  blast  from  the  arching  heaven. 
With  its  walls  of  solid  masonry, 

No  grateful  coolness  yet  was  given. 
Night  and  day  were  wild  heads  tost 

Hither  and  thither  on  restless  pillows, 
Like  hopeless  vessels,  their  rudder  lost. 

Which  rise  and  fall  with  the  heaving  billows. 


The  day  is  gone — the  lights  are  dim 

In  the  fever-ward  at  Drepigne ; 
And  an  awe  is  felt,  for  a  shadow,  grim. 

Hangs,  like  a  pall,  from  day  to  day. 
Again  and  again,  with  noiseless  tread, 

Has  the  silent  messenger  come  and  gone ; 
Another  cot  vacant,  and  in  its  stead, 

In  the  convent  yard,  another  stone. 


THE   SECRET    DISCOVERED.  6$ 

The  night  is  fair — the  moon  is  high, 
Round  and  bright  in  a  cloudless  sky; 
So  bright  that  the  goodliest  planet  pales 
In  the  sea  of  space  where  she,  peerless,  sails. 
So  clear  her  light  that  one  may  trace 
Each  line  of  pain  in  the  sufferer's  face, 
Or  read  from  the  missal  the  ev'ning  prayer. 
Ah!  all  too  still  the  scene,  and  fair; 
And  all  too  deadly  the  burden'd  air, 
When  only  the  gracious  wind  and  rain 
Can  end  the  season  of  fear  and  pain. 

Long  trained,  'twould  seem,  to  vigil  and  fast, 

Needing  but  little  of  change  or  rest; 
First  to  come  and  lingering  last. 

By  no  toil  subdued — no  heat  opprest, 
One  silent  figure  is  bending  yet 

O'er  a  tiny  cot  near  the  casement  free, 
Parting  the  clustering  curls  of  jet 

And  wiping  the  forehead  tenderly. 
A  beautiful  child,  with  classic  face 

Such  as  the  antique  sculptures  wear ; 
A  freak  of  nature,  or  of  a  race 

Crowned  with  an  order  of  beauty  rare, 
That  for  pride  of  person  and  mien  might  mate 
With  the  highest  in  any  land  or  state. 


65  KINDESLIEBE. 

Scarce  had  a  second  summer  shed 
Its  fragrant  blossoms  o'er  that  fair  head, 
But  already,  in  view  of  the  envious  tomb, 
Had  gathered  dark  omens  of  early  doom. 
Hour  by  hour,  the  pulse  beat  quicker — 
Day  by  day,  deeper  and  thicker 
The  black,  impalpable,  pitiless  cloud. 
Waiting  that  failing  form  to  shroud. 

Who  was  he?  Whence  was  he?  None  could  tell, 

For  convent  walls  kept  their  secrets  well ; 

And  no  venial  sin  it  was  to  pry, 

In  those  dark  days  long  since  gone  by. 

Into  many  a  painful  mystery. 

Now  and  anon  through  that  tender  frame 

A  thrill  of  sharper  suffering  came  : 

The  little  patient  would  writhe  and  groan. 

Touching  the  heart  with  pitiful  moan, 

Or  fling  his  arms,  or  flash  his  eyes, 

And  strive  from  the  clinging  arms  to  rise ; 

Till  soon,  the  fruitless  conflict  o'er, 

He'd  sink  on  the  faithful  breast  once  more, 

So  pale  and  rigid — so  calm  and  still, 

'Twould  seem  that  Death  had  had  his  fill. 


THE   SECRET    DISCOVERED.  67 

Just  such  a  Spasm  had  come  and  gone, 

And  Soeur  Marie  was  watching  alone. 

The  terrible  struggle  overpast, 

Drooped  the  weary  head  at  last 

As  fell  the  sad  tears,  thick  and  fast, 

Over  the  little  form,  opprest, 

And  the  pain-drawn  features  now  at  rest. 

To  quicken  the  blood's  returning  tide 

She  bears  the  child  to  the  casement  wide, 

Praying  for  one  faint  breath  of  air 

To  summon  the  life  to  those  features  fair. 

As  the  silv'ry  moonlight,  flick'ring,  falls 
On  those  delicate  lines,  once  more  at  peace, 

What  is  it  that  memory  fond,  recalls — 
That  makes  her  very  pulse  to  cease  ? 

That  bids  her  hope,  when  hope  is  dead, 

And  cling  to  a  Past  forever  fled  ? 

With  trembling  fingers  she  bares  the  breast 

Where  the  little  heart  so  feebly  beats. 
On  what  does  her  gaze  so  wildly  rest  ? 

What  is  that  sign  her  vision  greets  ? 
Naught  but  a  little  purple  stain — 

A  stain,  as  of  wine,  on  the  shoulder  white. 
But  gleaming  forth,  distinct  and  plain. 

Dagger-shaped,  in  the  sheeny  light. 


68  KINDESLIEBE. 

She  staggers — she  reels !  An  instant  more, 

The  convent  walls  had  thrill'd  to  a  cry 
As  only  comes  from  a  spirit  sore  i 

In  the  hour  of  deepest  agony; 
When  excess  of  joy,  or  pain,  or  grief 
Finds  in  such  voice  a  swift  relief. 

But  quick  and  sharp  the  warning  flies, 

As  'cross  the  heavens  the  lightning's  gleam, 

That,  one  such  cry,  and  the  new-found  prize 
Would  elude  the  grasp,  like  an  empty  dreaiii. 

Wonderful  instinct !  true  and  strong, 

Needing  no  reas'ning  process  long, 

But  reaching  the  goal  with  single  bound ' 

Or  ever  another  aid  be  found.  h 

No  cry  is  heard ;  but,  ah  !  the  strain 

In  that  quiv'ring  frame  shews  all  too  plain. 

The  ashen  pallor  of  brow  and  cheeks —  -  , 

The  swollen  veins,  like  leaden  streaks —  |^ 

The  eyes,  transfixed — expressionless — 

Picture  the  spirit's  mute  distress. 

Then  one  convulsive,  sudden  throb — 

A  long — long  sigh,  more  like  a  sob, 


K 


K 


THE   SECRET    DISCOVEREIJ.  69 

And  a  bountiful  rush  of  blessed  tears, 
Bearing  away  on  its  gen'rous  tide 

All  the  sorrow  -nd  care  of  years 
Into  the  v/aste  of  waters  wide. 

Eagerly,  fondly,  fiercely  prest 

In  the  close  embrace  of  that  loving  breast, 

'Twould  seem  from  that  warm  fount  of  life 

Fresh  strength  was  drawp.  for  the  bitter  strife. 

Certain  it  is,  from  that  same  hour 

There  came  a  virtue,  or  healing  power 

To  the  feeble  frame  on  the  very  brink 

Of  the  grave  to  which  it  seemed  doomed  to  sink. 

Breasting  ihe  force  of  Death's  dark  flood. 

Like  him  of  old,  she  bravely  "  stood 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead," 

And  once  again  "  the  plague  was  stayed." 

Can  it  be  that  love  hath  power  to  stay 

The  heav'nward  path  of  the  parting  breath  ? 
That  aught  but  the  powV  divine,  his  prey 
Can  snatch  from  the  cruel  grasp  of  Death  ? 
)  Or  can  it  reverse  the  dread  decree  ? 

Or  plead  for  a  special  clemency  ? 


70  KINDESLIEBE. 

Unuttered  though  the  stifled  cry- 
That,  on  the  wings  of  night  upborne, 

Had  told  to  the  whole  community 

Of  a  long-lost  hope's  most  blessed  dawn  ; 

It  had  not  failed  that  eye  had  seen, 
In  one  so  calm,  the  tempest  wrought, 

Or  of  that  struggle  witness  been, 

With  but  one  meaning  surely  fraught. 

The  lady  Abbess,  in  nightly  round, 

Had  never  shunned  the  sick  and  pained  ; 

Each  had  in  her  a  mother  found, 
And  ready  sympathy  had  gained. 

Ah !  not  a  mother' s,  since,  perforce, 

From  no  terrestrial,  human  source 

But  has  maternal  anguish  known 

Has  love,  maternal,  ever  flown. 

^^  ^^  ^F  ^  ^F  ^F  ^  ^r 

In  the  convent  chapel,  still  and  lone, 
Prostrate  before  the  altar  of  stone — 
"^Vhere  stands  the  Virgin  Mother,  mild, 
And  in  her  arms  the  Holy  Child — 
A  suppliant  figure  mutely  bends — 
Upward  her  pleading  glances  sends. 
Her  hair  dishevel'd,  disorder'd  dress, 
Witness  her  spirit's  sore  distress, 


THE   SECRET    DISCOVERED.  7 1 

E'en  as  the  inward,  stifled  moan, 
Burden'd,  it  seemed,  with  sadder  tone 
For  the  anguish  within  the  bosom  pent 
Which  might  not  find  itself  a  vent. 

Ah !  for  the  spirit,  pure  and  true, 
Only  anxious  the  right  to  do  ; 
When  a  wall  of  darkness  seems  to  hide 
The  path  before,  and  on  either  side 
Duty  and  love  the  heart  divide. 

Is  there  a  spot  'twixt  right  and  wrong, 

Bound  by  a  line  so  thin  and  fine 
That,  e'en  when  the  motive's  pure  and  strong. 

The  path  of  duty  is  hard  to  define  ? 
Where  eaily  training  and  early  creed 

May  rill  tae  mind  with  so  deep  a  haze, 
Or  such  distrust  o*"  self  may  breed 

As  to  render  the  road  a  trackless  maz .  ? 

Reared  from  a  child  in  convent  school, 
Under  the  Church's  sacred  rule; 
To  all  her  edicts  taught  to  bow, 
And  loyal  to  her  order  s  solemn  vow ; 


72  KINDESLIEBE. 

Yet  dowered  with  heart  so  sensitive 

To  the  tender  claims  of  pity  and  love, 
That  e'en  reproof  she  needs  must  give 

To  sorrow  the  gentle  soul  would  move ; 
What  wonder  oft  her  path  was  drear, 

Since  out  of  the  darkened  heav'n  above 
There  came  no  voice,  in  accents  clear, 

Proclaiming  love  duty,  and  duty  love ; 
That,  of  all  the  holy  and  blessed  Three, 
The  greatest  and  sweetest  is  Charity. 

"  Only  a  sign — one  little  sign ; 

Some  outward  act — some  voice  within" — 
She  pleads  with  tears  at  the  sacred  shrine — 
"  To  keep  the  conscience  free  from  sin  : " 
The  slightest  change  in  the  marble  face, 

Chiseled  with  exquisite  taste  and  skill, 
In  which  the  suppliant  yet  might  trace 

With  eye  of  faith  the  Father's  will. 

Dare  she  list  to  the  mute  appeal 

Of  that  moon-lit  scene  in  the  convent  ward? 
Or  must  she,  stern  as  the  pitiless  steel, 

Slay  the  bright  hope  by  Heaven  restored  ? 


THE   SECRET    DISCOVERED.  73 

Dare  she  list  to  the  tender  yearning 
That  seems  to  rise  from  her  inmost  soul  ? 

Or,  like  some  false  fire,  fiercely  burning, 
Must  it  yield  at  once  to  sharp  control? 

"  O  Virgin  Mother !  whose  tender  breast 
Was  pierced  and  torn  by  the  cruel  sword, 

When  sadly  thy  weeping  eyes  did  rest 

On  the  bleeding  form  of  thy  Son  and  Lord. 

Thou  who,  in  virgin  purity. 

Didst  bear  the  pangs  of  maternity ! 

Say,  in  the  light  of  the  Holy  Heaven, 
Is  not  a  mother's  love  full  claim 

To  the  helpless  offspring  by  Nature  given. 

E'en  though  it  bear  the  brand  of  shame  ?" 

»****♦**  * 

Hour  by  hour  she  pleads  and  prays — 
Hither  and  thither  her  purpose  sv/ays ; 
But  still,  in  the  faint  and  flick'ring  flame, 
No  answering  glow  on  that  visage  came. 
Cold  and  beautiful  still,  as  the  dead 
From  whom  all  passion  of  life  hath  fled, 
The  sacred  sculpture  gazed  below 
And  mutely  smiled  on  her  pain  and  woe. 
Still  from  within  no  answer,  clear, 
Came  to  the  suppliant  spirit's  ear : 


74  KINDESLIEBE. 

But  when  the  sun  with  its  rising  beams 
Once  more  o'er  the  earth  in  beauty  shone, 

The  mother  lay  wrapt  in  golden  dreams 

With  a  soul  at  peace,  but  the  child — was  gone. 


I 


Canto  IX. 


LES  BASSES  ALPES. 


O  fairest  land  of  liberty  ! 
Where,  like  the  bounding  chamois,  free, 
A  mountain  people  have  maintained 
The  priceless  boon  of  freedom,  gained 
By  noblest  deeds  of  courage  high 
Through  many  a  bygone  century: 
Where  on  each  rugged  mountain  steep 
And  in  each  lonely,  still  recess, 

The  bones  of  many  a  patriot  sleep 
'Mid  Nature's  grandest  loveliness. 

And  the  rude  blasts  that  hurry  by 

Chant  an  unending  elegy. 

O  fairest  land  of  glittering  heights ! 

Whose  varied  hue  the  eye  delights ; 


76  KINDESLIEBE. 

Where,  nestling  'neath  thy  mountain  crests, 

Thy  hamlets  fair,  like  eagles'  nests. 

Hang  in  the  blue  immensity 

A  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 

And  through  whose  winding  vales  are  seen 

Thy  peaceful  homes  'mid  pastures  green. 

O  fairest  land  !  whose  wilds  have  been 
Witness  of  many  a  bloody  scene — 
Whose  proud  achievements,  clothed  in  song, 
Shall  echo  through  the  ages  long : 
Down  whose  defiles,  so  dark  and  deep, 
The  fearful  avalanches  sweep. 
No  swifter  in  their  sheer  descent, 
Or  wider  in  their  ruin  lent, 
Than  thy  brave  sons,  when  in  their  wrath 
They  stayed  the  proud  invader's  path ; 
And  with  the  weappns  Nature  gave 
Made  for  their  foes  one  common  grave 
'Neath  rocks  and  trees,  in  fury  hurled, 
As  from  their  roots  by  tempest  whirled. 
Making  astounded  Europe  see 
Humbled,  her  proudest  chivalry, 
Before  thy  free-born  peasantry. 


LES    BASSES   ALPES.  7/ 

What  though  thy  peaks  can  ne'er  forego 
Their  crowns  of  everlasting  snow: 
What  though  thy  glaciers,  wide  and  deep, 
Like  doom  itself,  resistless  creep; 
And  through  thy  craggy  wiJds  the  blast 
J  All  pitilessly  hurries  past, 

And  Nature  in  her  sternest  moods 

Is  seen  in  thy  vast  solitudes : 

Yet,  when  the  gath'ring  storms  are  o'er 

And  on  thy  realms  she  smiles  once  more. 

What  land  on  earth  can  equal  thine 

In  all  the  beauties  which  combine 

To  make  it  in  the  traveler's  eyes 

A  perfect  earthly  paradise  ? 

When  all  thy  glitt'ring  mountain  peaks 
The  rosy  morning  faintly  streaks. 
Or  evening  sheds  its  crimson  glow 
Upon  their  robes  of  driven  snow  : 
When,  first,  returning  smiles  of  Spring 
Life  to  thy  frozen  torrents  bring. 
And,  flashing  each  from  hidden  cell, 
They,  joyful,  leap  from  rock  and  fell 
Or,  like  the  captive.,  just  unbound. 
Fill  all  the  balmy  air  around 
With  their  glad  song's  rejoicing  sound  : 


yS  KINDESLIEBE. 

When  from  the  valleys  at  their  feet 
Winter  withdraws  her  winding  sheet, 
And  all  thy  hills  and  dells  are  seen 
Bedecked  once  more  in  vivid  green : 
When  in  each  most  sequestered  nook 
Is  heard  the  voice  of  bird  and  brook ; 
And  even  on  the  rocky  ledge, 
Beside  the  chilly  glacier's  edge, 
The  timid  wild-flower  yet  doth  dare 
To  spread  its  blossoms  soft  and  fair : 
When  e'en  the  deep  and  dread  crevasse 
Is  wreathed  with  tender  ferns  and  grass : 
Then  where  on  earth  doth  Nature  stand 
More  truly  beautiful  and  grand  ? 
Where  homage  more  unfeigned  demand 
Than  in  the  sturdy  Switzer's  land  ? 

And  richer  treasures  yet  than  those 

Which  come  as  Nature's  choicest  gift, 
The  homes  amid  thy  hills  disclose 

And  far  and  wide  thy  fame  uplift ; 
A  people,  hardy,  temperate,  true, 
With  hearts  to  feel  and  hands  to  do ; 
Who,  though  their  earthly  lot  was  cast 
'Mid  empires,  powerful  and  vast. 
Yet  kept  their  freedom  to  the  last. 


■ 


LES   BASSES   ALPES.  79 

And,  come  what  might,  yet  dared  be  free 
In  face  of  proudest  tyranny. 

The  child  that  first  beholds  the  light 
Beneath  some  soaring  Alpine  height ; 
That  grows  familiar  with  its  form. 
And  early  learns  to  brave  the  storm, 
Looking  with  firm  and  dauntless  eye 
On  all  the  tumult  of  the  sky ; 
That  daily  breathes  a  mountain  air 
And  feasts  upon  its  beauties  rare ; 
That  fearless  leaps  from  rock  to  rock, 
All  heedless  of  the  thunder-shock. 
Well  skill'd  with  steadfast  foot  and  brain 
The  loftiest  peaks,  secure,  to  gain ; 
That  hourly  faces  dangers  grim 
At  peril  both  of  life  and  limb ; 
How  shall  such  offspring  ever  be 
Aught  else  but  constant,  brave,  and  free  ? 

Thus  oft  hath  Liberty — denied 

All  refuge  but  the  bleak  hillside — 

Found  shelter  in  the  peace  that  fills 

The  bosom  of  thy  glorious  hills. 

Here,  by  thy  peaks  which  tower  to  heaven, 

Was  promise  of  protection  given. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


UUi. 

111= 

1.4    ill  1.6 


V] 


'^ 


7: 


^ 


O 


7 


/A 


'<^. 


^4 


1 


d 


\ 


8o 


KINDESLIEBE. 


Here,  by  their  strong  and  friendly  aid — 
When  leagued  Oppression  stood  arrayed- 
Was  kept  one  spot  of  holy  ground 
Where  Freedom  still  a  refuge  found.     ' 


tanio  X. 


THE  WAYSIDE  CROSS. 


The  crimson  sun  had  sunk  to  rest 
Behind  a  lofty  Alpine  crest, 
Beneath  whose  shelter  lay  unroll'd 
A  landscape,  picturesque  and  bold. 
Whose  undulations,  deep  and  wide, 
Like  ocean  billows  in  their  pride. 
Stretched  from  its  base  on  every  side. 

J  ust  where  the  shadows  deepest  lay, 
And  eariiest  fades  the  light  of  day, 
A  winding  valley  mig;ht  be  seen 
Threading  its  way  the  crags  between. 
Dotted  with  many  a  humble  cot 
Where  dwells,  contented  with  his  lot, 


82  KINDESLIEBE. 

The  hardy  mountaineer  whose  heart 
Craves  not  a  prouder,  loftier  part 
In  this  world's  eager,  madding  strife. 
Or  on  the  battlefield  of  life. 

The  chime  that  told  the  sunset  hour 
Had  sounded  from  the  convent  tower, 
And  from  the  humble  village  spire 

An  answering  echo  softly  came, 
As  if  to  wake  each  pure  desire. 

And  quench  each  false,  unholy  flame. 
Bidding  each  restless  spirit  cease 
From  selfish  toil,  and  seek  for  peace 
At  that  one  source  of  love  profound 
Where  only,  perfect,  it  is  found. 

Just  where  the  road  the  valley  spurns 
And  up  the  steep  abruptly  turns. 
There  stands  within  a  deep  recess, 
'Gainst  the  huge  rock's  ungainliness, 
A  wooden  cross,  all  rudely  wrought, 
And  yet  enough  to  lure  the  thought 
Of  pasLer-by  to  Him  who  bore. 
With  loving  heart  and  spirit  sore, 
A  weightier  load  of  grief  and  pain 
Than  all  who  follow  in  His  train. 


' 


THE   WAYSIDE   CROSS. 

Little  it  knew  of  sculptor's  art — 
Made  no  appeal  to  cultured  taste  ; 

Yet,  doubtless,  it  had  done  its  part 
For  God  and  man  in  that  wild  waste, 

And  mingled  with  the  dross  of  earth 

A  something  of  a  nobler  worth. 

Before  the  cross,  upon  her  knees, 

A  peasant  girl  all  meekly  drooped. 
And  lightly  on  the  fresh'ning  breeze 

Her  dark  locks  fluttered,  as  she  stooped 
An  instant,  as  in  reverent  prayer ; 

Then,  lifted  up  her  dark  gray  eyes, 
As  if  to  read  an  answer  there     * 

In  the  still  radiance  of  the  skies. 
But  on  their  calm,  unruffled  face 
There  came  no  hand  divine  to  trace, 
As  on  the  proud  Chaldean's  hall, 
One  single  sentence  to  appall 
The  suppliant's  heart,  or  one  sweet  word 
To  soothe  a  breast  by  sorrow  stirred. 

But,  lo  1  a  rustling  on  the  air — 
A  footfall  on  the  pathway  bare ; 
But,  pastime  of  the  idle  wind, 
No  echo  in  that  heart  they  find. 


83 


84  KINUESLIEBE. 

'Tis  but  a  woman's  patient  tread, 
Only  a  bowed  and  weary  head : 
Only  a  figure — faint,  opprest — 

Pursuing  till  its  goal  is  won  ; 
Only  a  spirit  seeking  rest, 

Yet  in  the  wide  world  finding  none. 

A  little  space,  amazed,  she  stands 

With  straining  eyes  and  trembling  hands  ; 

As  in  the  very  house  of  death, 

She  scarcely  dares  to  draw  her  breath. 

Then,  in  its  sweet  intensity, 

Her  soul  goes  out  in  sympathy 

To  that  lone  form  and  piteous  face. 

Which,  in  the  hour  of  pain  and  loss, 
Had  found  their  fitting  resting-place 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  cross. 


No  need  of  mystic  lore  to  know 

The  secret  of  that  pictured  woe ; 

Experience  holds  the  truest  key 

To  every  human  agony. 

The  bleeding  feet  themselves  have  trod 

The  thorny  path  ordained  of  God ; 

The  trembling  lips  the  cup  have  drained 

From  v;hich  life's  sweetest  hopes  were  strained ; 


THE   WAYSIDE   CROSS. 


85 


'The  empty  shrine  in  which,  bereft, 
No  earthly  idol  now  is  left ; 
The  exile  for  whose  safe  return 
No  blazing  hearth  shall  brightly  burn — 
Who  through  the  earth,  from  end  to  end, 
Can  call  no  living  mortal  friend : 
Ah  !  who,  than  these,  can  sooner  trace 
In  every  feature  of  the  face — 
In  seamed  brow,  unkindling  eye, 
Where  gleams  no  more  Hope's  courage  high — 
In  quivering  lip — uncertain  gait — 
The  victim  of  an  unkind  fate ; 
That  direst  form  of  earth's  distress, 
Born  of  an  utter  loneliness  ? 

No  need  for  her  who  gazed,  to  frame 
That  lot  in  any  earthly  name ; 
No  need  to  gauge  by  process  slow 
The  measure  of  that  silent  v/oe ; 
Needless  the  rushing  tide  of  tears 
Which  soothes  the  heart  that  sorrow  sears ; 
Needless  the  passionate,  bitter  moan — 
"  Alone  !     Alone !  " 


Ined ; 


With  footstep  light,  the  wand'rer  steals, 
To  where  the  youthful  suppliant  kneels ; 


86 


KINDESLIEBE. 


Beside  her  sinks  upon  the  sward 

And  leans  the  drooping  form  toward. 

One  arm  with  eager,  tender  haste, 

She  wreathes  around  the  slender  waist ; 

Draws  the  fair  head  upon  her  breast — 

By  its  own  weight  of  care  opprest — 

As  o'er  that  bosom's  tempest,  wild, 

There  comes  a  voice — how  soft !  "  My  child  !  " 

One  sudden  and  convulsive  start — 
One  flutt'ring  of  the  guileless  heart ; 
One  troubled  look  of  doubt  and  fear — 
One  glance  into  those  eyes  so  clear, 
And,  every  mist  of  doubt  dispelled, 
She,  eager,  sought  the  peace  that  welled 
From  their  pure  depth's  unsullied  spring 
To  which,  no  more,  defilements  cling — 
Whose  troubled  and  embittered  tide 
The  "  branch  divine  "  had  purified : 
Then  on  that  loving,  faithful  breast 
A  haven  found  of  peace  and  rest. 

"  My  child,  you  weep !  Have  need  to  weep 
For  those  dear  forms  in  death  who  sleep. 
And  yet — they  sleep!  The  conflict  o'er, 
For  them,  life's  cares  can  vex  no  more. 


THE  WAYSIDE   CROSS.  8/ 

They  rest  in  peace !  No  cruel  hate — 
More  cruel  than  Death — can  separate 
Thy  love  from  them — their  love  from  thee, 
Now  theirs  and  thine  eternally. 
At  least  each  dear,  familiar  name 
Thy  quiv'ring  lips  may  seek  to  frame, 
And  make  no  secret  of  the  grief 
Which  in  such  solace  finds  relief; 
Whilst,  o'er  the  mound  which  love  uprears, 
May  fall  the  consecrating  tears. 


"  Beside  thee  one  whose  deeper  woe 
E'en  such  poor  comfort  must  forego : 
Whose  tend'rest  ties  to  earth  are  broken — 

Whose  dearest  idols  are  o'erthrown. 
And  yet  their  names  must  ne'er  be  spoken — 

In  life,  or  death,  must  be  unknown. 
Wrapped  in  impenetrable  cloud — 
Less  merciful  than  death's  pure  shroud — 
Their  fate,  unsolved,  must  yet  remain, 
Whilst  Hope,  still  baffled,  seeks  in  vain 
Sonie  faint  and  glimmering  light  to  gain. 
The  strongest  prayer  that  faith  can  wing 
To  Heaven,  all  answer  fails  to  bring ; 
Or,  like  the  dove  from  out  the  ark. 
Goes  forth  upon  the  waters  dark — 


^ '."  fip  ■  ™'f!Pi"-' 


88 


KINDESLIEBE. 


Circling  awhile  in  aimless  flight 
Above  the  overwhelming  tide — 

Only  once  more  within  to  light, 
Still  yearning  and  unsatisfied. 

"  If  thou  canst  trust  a  friend  like  me — 
Too  reft  of  all  that  earth  can  give, 
To  harbor  thought  of  harm  to  thee. 

Or  care  to  labor  to  deceive — 
Let  me  thy  loneliness  befriend ; 
Let  me  with  thee  my  wand'rings  end, 
And  let  our  separate  woes,  combined, 
A  common  consolation  find  !  " 

How  sweet  are  sympathy  and  cheer. 
E'en  when  the  spirit  seems  so  sear 
That  not  one  single  flower  or  blade 
Can  venture  to  uplift  its  head  ! 
How  sooii  beneath  their  timely  aid 
The  spirit,  crushed — forlorn— dismayed. 
Recruits  its  s':rength,  at  least  in  part; 
And  hope,  rekindled  in  the  heart. 
Puts  forth  again  its  petals  fair 
To  let  the  sunlight  settle  there. 


THE   WAYSIDE   CROSS.  89 

So — list'ning  to  the  stranger's  speech 

Which  falls,  like  dew  on  arid  plain, 
And  gazing  on  those  eyes  which  teach 

So  much  of  triumph  over  pain — 
The  suppliant,  rising  to  her  feet, 

Takes  the  kind  hands  within  her  own. 
With  grateful  deference,  soft  and  sweet, 

She  leads  her  to  a  chalet  lone. 
Deserted  now  by  all  who  gave 

It  warmth  and  beauty — light  and  peace. 
And  still  and  cheerless,  as  the  grave, 

Where  all  earth's  varied  trials  must  cease. 
Here — sweet  companion  of  her  woe — 
She  bids  her  further  toil  forego, 
And  share  with  h^*;  the  simple  lot 
And  unpretending  peasant's  cot; 
Which,  else,  her  unprotected  years 
Must  quit  in  homelessness  and  tears. 


5* 


tanio  XL 


LEONIE  DUVERGNE. 


Ah  !  how  describe  the  sense  of  rest 

The  wand'rer's  mind  and  limbs  confessed? 

How  calm  the  haven  she  had  found 

After  the  dull  and  weary  round, 

The  strain  of  which  she  never  knew 

Until  the  needed  respite  drew 

Her  grateful  heart  at  length  to  see 

Its  absolute  necessity! 

How  welcome,  too,  the  links  of  love 

Which  common  sorrow  swiftly  wove, 

To  bind  two  wounded  hearts  as  one 

In  close  and  sweet  communion  ! 


The  maiden's  tale  was  quickly  told. 
For  grief  in  youth  finds  ready  tongue. 

Her  friend  had  little  to  unfold 

She  could  confide  to  one  so  young ; 


I.KONIE    DUVKKGNE. 


91 


And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  her  fears, 

Some  fragments  of  her  life  would  fall, 

For  kindly  hearts  and  willing  ears 
Make  ever  good  confessional. 

A  father  lost  when  Alpine  snow 

Lay  deep  amid  the  mountain  rifts, 
And  all  the  winding  vale  below 

Was  overwhelmed  with  mighty  drifts : 
A  mother,  victim  of  disease 
Which  spares  not  Edens  such  as  these. 
But  leaves  the  trace  of  sin's  sad  blight 
E'en  on  these  plains  of  spotless  white. 
A  youth  left  friendless  and  forlorn, 
To  higher  hopes  and  prospects  born : 
This  was  the  substance  of  a  tale 
Which,  when  recounted,  could  not  fail 
To  waken  in  her  hearer  free 
And  unrestrained  sympathy. 

But  still  another  name  was  found, 

With  those  best  loved,  all  closely  bound ; 

Which — mourned  with  almost  equal  pain — 

Must  ever  in  her  mind  remain. 

"A  friend?"  "No  more.  But,  oh,  how  dear!" 

No  youthful  lover — this  was  clear. 


92 


KINDESLIEBE. 


His  mention  made  no  pulse  to  gain, 
Nor  brought  upon  her  cheek  a  stain ; 
And  yet  his  loss  had  wrought  her  pain, 

"A  kinsman?"    "No."     "A  stranger?"    "Yes. 

His  name — condition,  none  could  guess." 

"A  peasant?"      "No."      "French?    German? 

Swiss?" 
"  We  had  no  certain  c^ue  to  this.. 
He  spake  in  many  tongues  with  ease, 
And  used  them  oft  his  hosts  to  please; 
Yet  left  behind  no  single  trace 
Of  home  or  lineage,  rank  or  race." 

Such  were  the  answers  freely  made 
And  such  the  interest  betrayed, 
As,  sitting  in  the  ev'ning,  still, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  hill, 
Her  friend,  at  first,  to  speed  the  hoir., 
Would  question  after  question  shower. 
But,  as  the  answers  strangely  came, 
Again  revived,  the  stifled  flame 
Began  to  flicker  in  the  heart 
So  often  doomed  from  hope  to  part 
And  see  its  light,  so  soft  and  fair, 
But  set  once  more  in  dark  despair. 


LEONIE    DUVERGNE. 

Ah  !  could  it  be  that  all  her  toil 

Should  bring  her  but  to  such  a  goal? 
That  this  should  be  the  highest  spoil 

Vouchsafed  to  fill  her  yearning  soul  ? 
Only  the  record  of  a  life 
Yielded  so  early  in  the  strife ; 
The  memory  of  a  spirit,  pure, 
Which  ever  constant  must  endure, 
Until  the  heart  that  it  had  lighted — 
At  length  by  woe,  persistent,  blighted — 
Itself  should  cease  to  live  and  burn, 
And  "  dust  to  dust "  again  return. 


93 


It  needed  but  a  little  skill. 
Directed  by  an  eager  will — 
The  smallest  exercise  of  force. 
To  draw  from  such  a  willing  source 
The  history  of  the  peaceful  close 

Of  his  mysterious  career. 
Who  'mid  these  liills  had  found  repose 

Denied  him  in  his  native  sphere : 
To  gain,  in  simplest  forms  of  speech, 

A  truer  tribute  to  his  worth 
Than  storied  monuments  which  preach 

The  virtues  of  the  lords  of  earth ; 


94 


KINDESLIEBE. 


Shewing  how  man  can  brave  the  blast 

Of  human  hate  and  bigotry, 
And  keep,  untainted  to  the  last, 

His  spirit's  truth  and  purity. 

"  When  came  he?"  "On  an  autumn  eve. 

The  reapers  had  begun  to  leave 

Their  daily  toil ;  and  through  the  street 

Were  hying  to  the  calm  retreat 

Of  their  rude  homes,  which  'mid  the  wild 

In  rustic  loveliness  still  smiled, 

And  lent  a  charm  to  all  the  scene 

Which,  else,  too  desolate  had  been. 

"  The  sky  above  was  clear  and  calm. 

The  air  around  was  soft  as  balm. 

The  sun,  behind  the  mountain  crest. 

Was  glorifying  all  the  West. 

The  ruddy  tint  upon  the  leaves 

Well  matched  in  hue  the  standing  sheaves. 

All  Nature  donned  her  suit  of  brown. 

Save  where  the  snow-wreaths  ceaseless  crown 

The  peaks  which  soar  above  the  range 

Of  elemental  strife  and  change. 

"  Here  was  a  wagon  full  of  grain 
Attended  by  a  merry  train, 


m 


LEONIE    DUVEKGNE. 

The  mules  all  brave  with  ribbons  gay — 
The  village  girls  in  bright  array — 
The  lads  with  scythes  and  sickles  keen- 
Old  men  on  alpenstocks  who  lean. 
Here  was  a  drove  of  lowing  kine, 
And  there  a  woman  serving  wine, 
The  product  of  the  native  vine. 

"  Low-seated  on  the  shaven  grass, 
I  watched  the  gay  procession  pass — 
With  many  a  kindly  nod  and  smile, 
And  many  a  coy  and  harmless  wile 
For  friends  of  past  and  present  days, 
Who,  eager,  sought  to  fix  my  gaze — 
Unconscious,  till  the  street  was  free. 
Of  one,  who,  resting  wearily 
Beneath  a  rocky  crag,  had  been 
Amused  spectator  of  the  scene. 

"  A  blush — a  start — a  passing  shade, 
My  marked  disfavor  had  betrayed 
At  what  I  deemed,  in  my  surprise, 
Contemptuous  look  in  stranger  eyes. 
But,  instantly  approaching  near. 
The  traveler  in  his  accents  clear — 
With  grace  of  manner  all  his  own. 
Begged  pardon  for  an  interest  shewn 


95 


r 


96 


KINDESLIEBE. 


In  such  a  scene  of  happy  mirth 
'But  rarely  given,'  he  said,  *to  earth. 
And  like  a  cordial  to  the  heart 
Which  in  such  pleasures  knows  no  part.' 

"  No  more  could  maiden  heart  resist 
Such  full  ame7tde^  than  mountain  mist 
Withstand  the  sun's  concentrate  powers, 
When  all  its  rising  beams  it  showers 
Upon  the  valleys  dark  bulow 
And  makes  them  'neath  its  radiance  glow. 
And  when  he  told  of  journeyings  long — 

Of  failing  health,  and  soul  opprest — 
Only  sustained  by  purpose  strong. 

And  asked  for  shelter  and  for  rest ; 
My  pity  gave  with  tearful  eye 
What  pride,  offended,  would  deny. 

"  I  led  him  to  the  vine-clad  cot, 

A  stone  cast  only  from  the  spot, 

And  made  his  wants  and  weakness  known 

To  her  who  had  been  left  alone 

Of  all  my  early  friends  to  be 

The  guardian  of  my  infancy. 

A  kindly  welcome  there,  I  knew, 

Would  but  be  deemed  the  traveler's  due; 

For  at  that  lowly  threshold  few 


■.-■,.,"!''.'  J.~-   r'jjrrw." 


LEONIE    DUVERGNE. 

Could  plead  in  vain,  if  frank  and  free. 
The  rites  of  hospitality. 

"  Twas  strange  we  never  paused  to  mark 
How  fast  and  firm  our  friendship  grew ; 

And,  though  the  days  were  short  and  dark, 
How  fleet  and  light  the  moments  flew. 

With  heavy  heart  and  failing  health, 

The  stranger,  it  would  seem,  had  wealth ; 

Ample  at  least  for  all  the  care 

He  needed,  and  the  simple  fare 

Which  seemed  sufficient  to  invite 

His  pure,  unpampered  appetite, 

Leaving  his  generous  spirit  free 

For  noblest  acts  of  cb-'-itv. 

Had  he  been  born  a  mountain  child 

And  known  no  home  but  some  such  wild, 

More  suited  he  could  scarce  have  been 

To  such  a  life  and  such  a  scene." 


97 


tanio  XII. 


THE  STRANGER-FRIEND. 


"  How  shall  I  tell  of  all  he  wrought 

To  cheer  the  heart — to  raise  the  mind, 
Till  every  deed  and  every  thought 

A  loftier  level  seemed  to  find  ? 
How,  skilled  in  many  a  useful  art. 
He  sou^;;  at  his  talents  to  impart, 
And  taught  the  villagers  to  turn 

Their  native  skill  to  higher  spoil, 
And  win  more  suitable  return 

For  honest  and  ingenious  toil  ? 
How,  the  long  winter  days  and  nights — 
When  fierce  winds  raged  upon  the  heights- 
Were  seasons  now  of  calm  delights. 
As  giving  brain  and  hand  employ — 
Lending  to  life  a  sweeter  joy. 


THE   STRANGER-FRIEND. 

And  bringing,  in  the  days  to  come, 
Full  many  a  comfort  to  each  home. 
Making  those  humble  thresholds  free 
From  chilling  gloom  of  poverty  ? 

"  Full  oft,  when  daily  toils  were  o'er, 
He  would  disclose  his  goodly  store 
Of  varied  knowledge,  rich  and  rare — 
For  he  had  traveled  everywhere — 
And  by  the  blazing  hearth  instil 
Such  lessons  as,  the  mind,  would  fill 
With  aspirations  pure  and  high 
The  nobler  paths  of  life  to  try  ? 


99 


« > 


Twas  from  his  lips  had  flowed  the  truth, 
As  ne'er  before  it  blessed  my  youth. 
I  learned  the  Ristory  of  our  land ; 
How  it  had  sheltered  many  a  band — 
Whose  worth  the  world  might  never  know- 
In  their  dark  hour  of  pain  and  woe. 
But  most  I  learned  to  pity  those, 
Down-trodden  by  their  ruthless  foes 
Because,  in  soul,  they  dared  be  free. 
And  scorned  a  spiritual  tyranny. 

*'  He  taught  my  careless  eyes  to  trace 
A  Father's  love  in  every  place, 


:oo 


KINDESLIEBE. 


Till  mount  and  rock,  and  stream  and  dell 
Seemed  portions  of  a  temple  gra>   . — 

That,  in  it,  He  Himself  might  dwell — 
The  Lord  of  all  the  earth  had  planned; 

And  how  the  Master  once  had  said, 
'  The  hairs  were  told  on  every  head, 

And  not  a  sparrow  fell,  but  He 

Did  hold  it  in  His  memory* 


"  How  blithely  sped  the  winter  night 
When,  in  the  huge  log's  fitful  light, 
An  eager  group  of  young  and  old 
Sat  list'ning,  rapt,  to  stories  told 
Of  German,  French,  or  Switzer's  lands  : 
How  dauntlessly  their  noble  bands 
Stood  forth  in  fierce  and  bloody  fight 
For  fatherland,  and  home,  and  right ; 
And  gave  no  thought  to  limb  or  life 
In  such  a  cause,  and  such  a  strife. 
And,  as  all  marked  his  look  of  pride — - 

The  fire  that  sparkled  in  his  eye, 
He  might  have  been  a  captain,  tried. 
Leading  his  hosts  to  victory. 


THE   STRANGER-FRIEND.  lOI 

"  E'en  the  good  nirc^  old  and  gray, 

Would  smoke  his  pipe  the  blaze  before, 
And  while  the  ev'ning  hours  away 
With  interchange  of  ancient  lore. 

.  He  learned  to  love  the  stranger  youth. 
First,  doubtless,  for  the  stamp  of  truth 
He  wore  upon  his  open  face ; 
But  none  the  less  for  that  sweet  grace 
Of  speech  and  manner,  which  would  thrall 
With  wond'rous  charm  the  hearts  of  all. 


"  He  loved  to  hear  him  talk  of  Art — 

Of  many  a  custom,  quaint  and  old: 
But,  when  some  deeper  thought  his  heart 

Would  warm,  and  waxed  his  spirit  bold — 
Launched  on  resentment's  gen'rous  tide — 

And  he  denounced  in  accents  stern 
The  petty  tyranny  that  tried 

The  rule  of  conscience  to  o'erturn. 
The  aged  priest  would  shake  his  head, 

And  glance  around  with  aspect  grave, 
As  with  a  certain,  secret  dread 

For  one  so  heedless  and  so  brave : 
For  Rome,  though  shorn  of  temporal  powers, 
Yet  largely  sways  these  realms  of  ours, 


102 


KINDESLIEBE. 


And  has  her  zealots  everywhere, 
Too  ready  to  display  their  care 
For  that  blest  Faith,  whose  highest  pfea, 
Their  blinded  eyes  have  failed  to  see, 
Is  the  sweet  grace  of  charity. 

"  No  doubt  the  good  man  in  his  mind 

Was  questioning  what  this  >varmth  might  be, 
And  feared  lest  some  should  seek  to  find 

A  lurking  taint  of  heresy. 
Yet,  in  this  still,  secluded  vale 

But  few,  if  any,  ever  heard 
Of  doubts  that,  minds  without  the  pale 

Of  Holy  Church,  so  deeply  stirred. 
We  knew  no  heroes  but  the  saints, 

Whose  pictured  lives  we  learned  by  rote ; 
And  felt  no  burden  in  restraints 

Whose  weight  we  ne'er  had  paused  to  note. 
The  graver  thoughts  which,  some,  perplexed — 
The  claims  that,  others,  sorely  vexed, 
Produced  no  ripple  on  the  sea 
Of  our  more  peaceful  piety. 

"  But,  if  from  larger  knowledge  free, 
We  little  knew  of  bigotry : 


THE   STRANGER-FRIEND. 

By  priest  or  abbess,  man  or  maid, 
A  kindly  welcome  e'er  was  said, 
And  none  would  fail  with  aid  to  bless 
A  heretic,  if  in  distress." 


103 


DC, 


te. 


Canfo  XIIL 


LA  GORGE  DE  ST.  BARTHELEMI. 


"  Alas !  that,  o'er  a  scene  so  bright, 
Should  fall  so  terrible  a  night 
As  that  which  broke  the  pleasing  spell- 
Of  which  I  tremble  as  I  tell. 


"  Low-seated  in  the  ruddy  glow, 
Where  all  too  fast  the  moments  go, 
Or  busy  with  some  light  employ, 
We  never  dreamed  how  brief  our  joy, 
Nor  read  the  meaning  of  the  gloom  - 
Presaging  such  an  awful  doom. 
No  heart  grew  faint — no  cheek  grew  pale, 
Nor  failed  the  joke — the  song — the  tale ; 
Not  one  among  us  thought  to  see 
So  awful  a  catastrophe. 


LA    GORGE    HE   ST.    nARTHKLKMI.  IO5 

"  Week  after  week  the  winds  had  swept 
Around  our  happy  mountain  land. 
Higher  and  higher  tlie  snow  line  crept — 

A  fathom  deep  it  seemed  to  stand. 
More  fearful  grew  the  gath'ring  drifts 
In  dark  ravines  and  craggy  rifts, 
Whilst  o'er  the  undulating  dales 
A  white  and  billowy  waste  prevails. 
Vast  wreaths,  like  shrouds,  hang  overhead — 
The  mountain  passes  none  can  tread. 
The  very  prince  of  mountaineers — 
A  hardy  Swiss,  who  mocked  at  fears, 
Brave  Paul  Leroux — was  well-nin:h  lost 
In  bringing  in  the  weekly  post; 
The  only  intercourse  we  knew 
With  those  beyond,  for  mails  were  few 
And  travelers  rarely  came  to  see 
La  Gorge  de  Saint  Barthelemi. 


"  E'en  twixt  the  dwellings  scattered  4vide 
Throughout  the  neighb'ring  country-side, 
But  little  contact  now  was  known. 
In  many  a  hut  and  cabin  lone 
The  tinkling  of  the  convent-bell 
The  lapse  of  time  alone  would  tell ; 


io6 


KINDESLIEBE. 


And,  sounding  thro'  the  thin  crisp  air, 

Would  toll  the  hour  for  praise  and  prayer, 

Reechoing  from  hill  to  hill 

That  'God  was  in  His  temple  still,' 

And  yet  looked  down  in  love  divine 

From  every  snow-clad  mountain  shrine. 
■t 

"  Was  it  that,  in  our  happiness. 
We  failed  His  holy  name  to  bless  ? 
Or  was  it,  that  the  silence  deep 
Had  lulled  our  watchful  fears  to  sleep  ? 
*Tis  certain,  when  the  wak'ning  came, 
It  startled  old  and  young  the  same. 
The  patriarch,  witness,  spared  to  be, 
Of  a  revolving  century. 
Had  never  known  the  weather  break, 
Or  bitter  frost  its  hold  forsake. 
So  early  in  the  new-born  year 
Upon  the  hillside  far  and  near. 
All  prayed  they  might  not  live  to  see 
Again  such  widespread  misery. 

"  For  suddenly  the  wind  had  veered, 
While  o'er  the  steel-blue  heavens  fair 
Dark  forms  of  threat'ning  cloud  appear'd. 
And  soft  and  sluggish  grew  the  air. 


LA    GORGE    DE   ST.    BARTHELEMI.  10/ 

So  thick  the  mists  that  clung  to  earth 
One  could  not  see  a  yard  before ; 

The  hardiest  dared  not  venture  forth 
A  single  rod  from  out  the  door. 

Eye  read  in  eye  the  growing  awe — 

Silent,  we  wait — the  sudden  thaw. 

"  Only  in  such  a  place  and  scene 
Can  any  learn  alight  what  mean 
These  awful  words.     How  dire  and  fell, 
The  woe  and  ruin  which  they  tell ! 
No  horrors  wrought  by  flood  or  fire — 

No  earthquake's  shock,  or  dread  disease 
Such  terror  and  dismay  inspire 

In  dwellers  in  such  spots  as  these ; 
Since,  in  one  common  loss  combined, 
Friends — fortune — life  and  all,  they  find. 

"  E'en  when  at  length  the  day-break  fell, 

So  deep  the  gloom  that  hedged  us  in, 
That  not  a  living  soul  could  tell 

When  night  did  cease  and  day  begin. 
But,  with  the  setting  of  the  sun, 

The  gath'ring  clouds  in  fury  broke. 
Like  liquid  fire,  the  flashes  ran 

Across  the  heav'ns.     The  thunder  woke 


io8 


KINDESLIEBE. 


The  echoes  of  the  frozen  hills. 
The  hollow  earth,  responsive,  thrills. 
Then,  as  each  cheek  grows  deathly  pale, 
Down  pours  the  mingled  rain  and  hail, 
In  one  long  wild  and  furious  rush. 
We  count  each  heart-beat  in  the  hush 
Between  each  fearful  thunder  peal, 
Which  makes  th'=:  cabin  rock  and  reel — 
Our  cold  limbs  quiver  as  we  kneel. 


'•  The  little  flock  the  cot  could  hold 
Were  penned,  like  trembling  sheep,  in  fold. 
More  distant  from  the  mountain-side. 
It  left  a  margin  safe  and  wide 
To  stem  the  avalanche's  tide. 
Within — some  twenty  souls  in  all — 
We  cower  as  the  storms  appall ; 
For,  save  our  chalet — which  was  found 
Removed,  and  on  a  rising  ground — 
No  other  shelter,  safe,  was  near 
Short  of  the  Convent  of  St.  Cyr, 
Whose  walls  were  distant  many  a  rood, 
Whilst  raged  between  the  swollen  flood. 


LA   GORGE    DE   ST.    BARTHELEMI.  ICX) 

"  I  know  not  what  the  others  thought, 

Or  what  they  prayed,  or  what  they  felt ; 
For  terror,  silence  deep  had  wrought. 

But,  as  beside  the  hearth  I  knelt, 
It  seemed  as  if  the  past,  unrolled, 
Gave  back  that  awful  night  of  old, 
When  Israel's  God — about  to  free 
His  people  from  captivity — 
Bade  them,  the  '  paschal  lamb,'  to  slay 

And  sprinkle  blood  upon  the  door ; 
Waiting  in  faith  the  coming  day, 

Till  the  Destroyer  should  pass  o'er. 


"  All  through  the  night  we  knelt  and  prayed. 
No  hand  divine  the  tempest  stayed. 
But  when,  increasing  in  its  might, 
The  storm  had  reached  its  utmost  height, 
There  came  upon  each  ear  a  roar. 
Such  as  not  one  had  heard  before. 
It  seemed  that  e'en  the  tempest  failed. 
The  stoutest  heart  with  horror  quailed. 
As  in  the  pine-log's  fitful  blaze 
We,  trembling,  sought  each  other's  gaze. 
The  cheeks  of  all  with  terror  blanch 
Before  the  awful  avalanche. 


no 


KINDESLIEBE. 


"  O  fearful  night !  whose  hours  must  move 
So  cruelly  slow  for  those  whose  love 
Could  but  ill  broqk  such  long  suspense — 
When  every  single  nerve  was  tense. 
O  fearful  night !  which,  ere  it  parts, 
Takes  life  and  hope  from  countless  hearts. 
What  strongest  exercise  of  thought 
Could  estimate  thy  ruin  wrought  ? 

"  Twas  midday  ere  the  tempest  ceased ; 
And  all  our  little  band,  released. 
Prepared  to  venture  forth  and  try 
Th'  extent  of  the  calamity. 
Alas !  it  far  outweighed  our  fears ; 
Too  great  for  words — too  deep  for  tears. 
I,  Leonie  Duvergne,  would  die. 
Rather  than  life  and  fortune  buy 
With  such  another  agony  ! 

*'  For  miles  and  miles  the  snow  prevails 
O'er  mountain  slopes  and  winding  vales. 
Save  the  old  church  and  convent  walls, 

A  habitation,  scarce  is  seen ; " 
Where  once,  at  frequent  intervals, 

A  hundred  smiling  homes  had  been. 


LA   GORGE    DE   ST.    BARTHELEMI.  I  I  I 

Over  some  thousand  peaceful  dead 
That  spotless  shroud  was  deeply  spread. 
*Twas  far  into  the  summer,  bright, 
When  the  last  corpse  was  brought  to  light. 
They  knew  no  requiem  but  the  wail 

Of  bitter  blasts  which  hurried  by : 
No  watchers  but  the  bleak  hills,  pale, 

Beneath  Heav'n's  spacious  canopy. 

"  Such  was  the  record,  when,  at  last, 
The  sum  of  all  our  loss  was  cast. 
But  weeks  passed  by  before  we  knew  ; 
For,  daily,  here  and  there,  a  few 
Were  rescued  from  untimely  grave 
By  that  devored  band,  and  brave. 
Who,  forth,  with  dauntless  spirit  went. 
Day  after  day — though  chill  and  spent — 
And  labored  on  in  face  of  doom 
To  save  their  friends  from  living  tomb." 


Canio  XIV. 


THE  NAMELESS  GRAVE. 


"  And  foremost  in  this  noble  toil — 
To  snatch  from  Death  his  buried  spoil — 
Our  stranger-friend.     A  friend  indeed, 
Who  never,  in  our  deepest  need. 
Did  fail  our  drooping  hearts  to  cheer 
With  promise  of  deliv'rance  near : 
Who,  ever  first  to  do  and  plan, 
Devised  the  rescue — led  the  van, 
And  knew  no  rest  by  day  nor  night 
In  all  that  long  and  desperate  fight; 
Until,  o'ertaxed,  his  youthful  strength — 
His  dauntless  will  succumbed  at  length. 
And  from  that  little  pallet-bed. 

Surrounded  by  a  grieving  band, 
His  generous  soul  its  passage  sped 
And  left  us  for  the  spirit-land." 


THE   NAMELESS    GKAVE. 


113 


"  And  did  he  naught  to  you  reveal 
Ere  death  his  constant  lips  did  seal? 
Speak  nothing  of  his  friends — his  home  ? 
Where  he  was  bound  ?  Whence  he  did  come  ? " 


"  But  little.     Though,  when  fever  raged, 
He  wrestled,  like  a  lion  caged ; 
And  strove,  as  for  his  very  life. 
To  reach  his  absent  child  and  wife. 
But  when  the  kindly  cure  stood 
Beside  his  couch,  and  raised  the  rood, 
And  questioned,  *  if,  in  faith,  he  died 
Of  the  dear  Lord — the  Crucified? 
And  steadfast  in  the  one  true  fold 
Ordained  by  God  in  days  of  old  ? ' 
Then,  seemed  to  fall  a  holy  balm. 
And,  grew,  his  spirit,  wond'rous  calm. 
A  smile  of  heavenly  sweetness  came, 
And  kindled  in  his  eyes  a  flame. 
He  upward  gazed,  all  rapt,  to  Heaven- 
Not  one  but  caught  the  answer  given : 

"'The  blessing  of  a  holy  priest 

Comes,  father,  to  a  soul  released. 

Like  the  last  beam  of  setting  sun, 

To  smile  upon  a  journey  done. 
6* 


114  KINDESLIKBIi. 

Such  blessing  doth  my  spirit  crave ; 
'Twill  cheer  my  passage  to  the  grave. 
I  hold  the  faith — love  all  mankind  ; 
Still  in  the  Church  I  refuge  find, 
And  pray  that,  in  the  days  in  store, 
She  learn  and  teach  His  spirit  more.* 

"  The  gentle  sisters,  in  their  zeal, 

But  rarely  left  his  chamber  free. 
Beside  his  couch  in  prayer  they  kneel, 

Unceasing  in  their  ministry. 
But  once,  these  summoned  from  his  side, 

And  I  a  watching  all  alone — 
He  found  the  space,  too  long  denied, 

And  charged  me  thus,  in  lowered  tone 

" '  Dear  Leonie,  come  here  and  kneel. 
Let  me  your  gentle  hand-clasp  feel. 
Though  soft,  I  know  it  true  as  steel. 
You  love  me — all  of  you — I  think ; 
And  now,  upon  the  very  brink 
Of  death's  profound  and  dark  abyss, 
The  only  grace  I  ask,  is  this : 

*"I  care  not  where  my  grave  is  made, 
Nor  what  the  tribute  to  it  paid ; 


.» 


■ 


THE    NAMELESS   GRAVE.  II5 

And,  yet,  it  brings  me  joy  to  know, 

That  sometimes  thither  you  will  go, 

And  drop  at  least  a  tender  tear 

Where  lies  a  friend  and  brother,  dear. 

But,  o'er  that  spot,  where'er  it  be, 

I  would  each  traveler  should  see 

The  sacred  sign ;  and  on  its  face. 

Would  have  some  hand  th*  inscription  trace 

Engraven  on  this  signet  ring; 

To  which,  I  charge  thee  !  steadfast  cling. 

Then,  with  my  wallet,  let  it  be 

Interred  and  guarded  sacredly, 

Till  one  may  come  who  bears  my  name 

The  solemn  trust  at  length  to  claim. 

Mark  the  initials  closely  !  See  ! 

'Tis  hers  alone  who  gives  the  key, 

For  I  am—' " 

**  Floribel  de  Luys  ! 
Ah,  yes,  my  heart !  Thine  instinct  true 
Would  guide  me  right  at  last,  I  knew. 
Though,  wrapped  in  death,  my  love,  I  find, 
The  savor  he  hath  left  behind 
Is  yet  so  full  of  comfort,  sweet, 
I  cannot  deem  it  all  a  cheat. 


Il6  KINDESLIEBE. 

Sweet  Leonic,  I  claim  my  dust ! 
I  claim — his  w'^e — -thy  sacred  trust ! 
And  ever,  till  this  heart  be  cold, 
It  shall  thy  tender  form  enfold, 
And  benediction  seek  for  thee 

For  all  thy  sweet  fidelity." 
******* 
How  oft  at  eventide  they  stray, 
To  where,  in  peaceful  shadow,  lay 
The  little  mound  with  wooden  cross 
Which  told  of  all  their  common  loss, 
No  need  to  tell ;  for  deepest  grief 
Will  seek  at  times  such  sweet  relief, 
And  strength  and  consolation  gain 
E'en  in  the  memory  of  its  pain. 
Suffice  to  know,  that  mutual  love. 

And  mutual  sympathy  and  cheer, 
Like  Heaven's  own  sunshine  from  above. 

Dispensed  their  solace  year  by  year. 
The  individual  burden,  shared, 

Seemed  robbed  of  half  its  weary  load ; 
And  each  was  many  a  dark  hour  spared. 

As  they  pursued  the  common  road. 

And  when  the  history  of  the  vale 
Became  well-nigh  a  world-wide  tale, 


THE   NAMELKSS    GRAVE. 


117 


And,  daily,  curious  trav'lcrs  came 

To  view  the  scene  of  such  ill  fame; 

Not  one  but  sought  the  church-yard,  green, 

Where  might  the  stranger's  grave  be  seen ; 

And  tried  to  read,  but  all  in  vain, 

The  monogram — distinct  and  plain — 

Which  held  within  its  letters,  three. 

The  still  unraveled  mystery ; 

For,  faithful  to  his  very  dust 

Did  Leonie  preserve  her  trust. 


E'en  when  long  years  shall  have  effaced 
The  touching  lines,  so  rudely  traced — 
Those  simple  souls,  beyond  the  skies. 
Found  rest  and  peace  in  Paradise, 
For  whom  he  fell  in  sacrifice ; 
Rehearsed  by  many  a  cottage  hearth, 
His  deeds  shall  yet  be  known  on  earth, 
And  still  his  lasting  record  be : 

"  gere  fiec— emBafmeb  in  memory— 
@  fxitnt)  of  §t  (fattaefemi." 


tanio  XV. 


THE  WATERFALL 


Ten  fleeting  years  have  swiftly  sped — 

Ten  years  of  calm  content  and  peace. 
Fair  Leonie  long  since  is  wed ; 

Andj  when  her  daily  labors  cease, 
Will  often  come  with  children  twain, 
As  spring  resumes  her  beauteous  reign 
And  frees  the  valley  and  the  plain. 
Beneath  the  roof-tree  loved  so  well. 
Where  now,  alone,  her  friend  doth  dwell. 

Ah  !  not  a/ofie,  whose  pathway  lies 
'Mid  s^d,  but  fondest  memories : 
Where  ev'ry  hour,  from  first  to  last, 
Brings  converse  with  a  sacred  Past : 


THK    WATKKFALL.  I  IQ 

When  all  on  which  we  rest  our  eyes 
A  sweet  companionship  implies : 
When  ev'ry  zephyr  seems  to  thrill 

The.  heart,  and  stir  the  withered  leaves 
Of  perish'd  joys,  whose  fragrance  still 

The  present  sadness  yet  relieves  : 
When  breathes  through  all  an  undertone 
From  friends  beloved,  now  dead  and  gone — 
Ah  !  this  is  not  to  be  alone. 

Within  those  kindly,  shelt'ring  walls 

Did  he  not  draw  his  parting  breath  ? 
How  ev'ry  object  still  recalls 

That  peaceful — that  heroic  death ! 
Guarded,  like  shrine,  that  chamber  still, 

In  which  his  dying  charge  was  heard ; 
In  face  of  Leonie's  firm  will 

No  single  article  was  stirr'd. 
And  now  another  vigil  keeps — 
Beside  that  pallet  prays  and  weeps, 
And  feels  in  all  the  peaceful  air 
A  holy  presence  ling'ring  there, 
Which  chases  all  her  doub*s  and  fears 
And  brings  a  gladness  thro'  her  tears. 

So  in  the  works  of  love,  by  one 
Thus  truly  loved  so  well  begun, 


I20  KINDESLIEBI;. 

She  finds  a  solace  wond'rous  sweet, 
And  t;oil  enough  for  wiUing  feet; 
For  soon,  through  all  the  winding  vale. 
Is  known  full  well  that  visage  pale — 
That  slender  form  and  quiet  mien — 
That  smile,  so  kindly  and  serene. 

With  thrifty  spouse,  yet  kind  and  free, 

No  further  need  had  Leonie 

Of  that  poor  cabin  which  had  been 

A  witness  to  the  painful  scene 

Which  ever  in  her  past  career 

Stands  forth  begirt  with  awe  and  fear. 

A  modest  compensation  paid — 

Which  she  would  gladly  have  gainsaid — 

Secured  her  friend  a  tranquil  home, 

Until  at  least  the  time  should  come 

When  once  again,  the  weary  wild, 

She  needs  must  tread,  to  seek  her  child. 

How  oft  in  her  divided  heart 

The  tide  of  conflict  ebbed  and  flowed  ! 
Now  all  was  ready  to  depart — 

The  last  prayer  said — last  look  bestowed 
Upon  the  chamber,  fair  and  still — 
Upon  the  mound  beside  the  hill. 


THE    WATERFALL. 

E'en  with  her  journey  duly  planned, 
With  scrip  prepared  and  staff  in  hand, 
There  yet  would  come  a  sudden  change, 
Born  of  some  intuition  strange; 
And  with  a  burst  of  sudden  grief — 
The  charged  spirit's  best  relief — 
Her  steadfast  will  subdued  once  more, 
She  gave  the  bitter  contest  o'er, 
And  clung  to  that  secluded  spot 
From  which  his  memory  parted  not; 
And  which,  like  magnet,  held  her  soul 
With  irresistible  control. 


121 


Though  oft  renewed  this  inward  strife, 
How  calm  without  the  daily  life ! 
That  heart  itself  but  knew  the  cost 
Each  time  the  fight  was  won  or  lost. 
And  when  at  length  an  aged  crone 
Was  cast  upon  the  world  alone, 
Helpless  and  friendless,  it  appeared 
As  if  her  prayer  at  last  were  heard, 
And  Heaven  itself  had  found  a  way 

By  which  her  home  might  be  preserved, 
And  she  left  free  to  go  or  stay 

As  frequent  as  her  purpose  served. 


•^T' 


7 


122 


KINDESLIEBE. 


How  silently  the  years  go  by ! 

Or  bright  or  dark,  or  grave  or  gay, 
How  well-nigh  imperceptibly 

To-day  fades  into  yesterday ! 
We  wake  to  find  the  task  undone, 
Or  else,  perchance,  but  scarce  begun, 
Which  we  had  vowed  should  see  its  close 
Before  another  sun  uprose. 

And  so  it  was  with  her  who  found 

Amid  these  hills  this  refuge  sweet, 
And  chastened  joy  within  the  round 

Once  trodden  by  her  loved  one's  feet. 
A  few  brief  pilgrimages  made. 

It  may  be  in  as  many  years, 
Where'er  her  eager  steps  were  led 

By  dawning  hopes  or  quicken'd  fears, 
Had  but  sufficed  to  feed  the  flam.e 
From  whence  the  ceaseless  yearning  came. 
And  served  but  to  revive  the  stinsr 
A  tender  conscience  yet  will  bring. 
Though  reason  hath  the  charge  denied, 
And  love  itself  is  satisfied. 


THE    WATERFALL. 


123 


With  soul  oppressed  and  ill  at  ease, 

Beyond  her  wont  she  heedless  strays 
To  catch  the  fresh'ning  western  breeze 

That  round  the  height  above  her  plays — 
Scales  the  steep  rocks,  confus'dly  piled, 
On  which  the  summer  still  hath  smiled, 
And  left  its  tufts  of  tend'rest  green 
Where'er  its  footsteps,  light,  have  been. 
Guided  by  what?  or  whom ?  her  eye, 
Attracted,  lights  admiringly 
Upon  a  deep,  romantic  glen, 
Untrod,  if  not  unknown  of  men. 
Here,  in  fantastic  garb  arrayed, 
Nature  her  wildest  charms  displayed, 
And  wood  and  water,  rocks  and  fern 
Lent  grace  to  all  her  features  steru. 


Enraptured  by  the  wiid'ring  scene, 
She  stays  to  feast  each  eager  sense 

On  all  the  sweets  the  spot  serene 
Seems  but  too  willing  to  dispense ; 

Then,  sinking  on  a  rocky  bank 

*Bove  which  the  brushwood,  rich  and  rank. 

Hath,  interweaving,  cast  a  shade. 

As  if  for  halting  pilgrim  made, 


124  KINDESLIEBE. 

She  yields  herself  at  length,  opprest. 
To  quiet  thought  and  needed  rest. 

Whence  is  it  we  so  freely  draw 
On  Nature's  vast  and  varied  store, 
Yet  rarely  give  her  credit  due 
For  each  sweet  draught  of  bliss  we  knew  ? 
By  ev'ry  fair  and  gracious  gift 
She  would  the  sordid  soul  uplift. 
In  all  her  leafy  temples,  green, 
She  preaches  of  the  Great  Unseen, 
And  fills  the  far-reechoing  skies 
With  never-ending  symphonies. 
Whate'er  the  scene,  where'er  the  spot — 
E'en  when,  too  rapt,  we  heed  it  not— 
She  soothes  the  soul  with  peace  divine. 
Upon  its  wounds  pours  oil  and  wine. 
And  for  distressed  and  troubled  minds 
Some  blessed  antidote  still  finds. 

How  many  an  ingrate  never  knew 
From  whence  he  hope  and  courage  drew 
For  all  the  daily  wear  of  life, 
And  all  the  anguish  and  the  strife. 
Until  the  light  of  heav'n  hath  paled— 
The  bounteous  source  of  blessing  failed. 


THE   WATERFALL.  125 

And  left,  alike,  to  hearing — sij^ht. 
Unbroken  silence — deepest  night ! 

Ah !  did  such  thoughts  as  these  possess 
Her  brain  in  this  sweet  wilderness  ? 
On  which  had  rested  peace  profound 
But  for  the  constant  babbling  sound 
Of  yonder  waterfall,  which  leapt 
From  rock  to  rock,  or,  eager,  crept 
Between  the  jagged  boulders,  gray. 
Which  gave  its  waters  devious  way. 

If  so,  they  moved  to  other  strain. 

As  plainer  still,  and  still  more  plain, 

There  grew  a  method  in  its  tone 

Which  spake  unto  her  bosom  lone. 

And — with  a  meaning  full  and  clear 

She  paled  and  trembled  but  to  hear — 

Seemed  with  her  inmost  thoughts  to  chime. 

For,  in  a  weird  and  endless  rhyme, 

It  framed  the  purpose  of  her  heart, 

From  which,  though  oft  constrained  to  part. 

She  never  yet  had  wholly  lost ; 

And  which,  however  great  the  cost, 

She  felt  she  must  again  renew 

Ere  yet  another  summer  flew. 


T *(VT7  T?r'  -  ■■(f.-w^;^  ■..,..-  -  .'*-7"^^  ^i^.Wfjpiwfi  i'  *  wilj.'     n  .unri  .1 


^ 


126 


KINDESLIEBE. 


Intent,  she  heeds — still  more  intent; 
Yea,  all  her  soul,  it  seemed,  she  lent. 
As  thus  the  ceaseless  waters  sang, 
The  while  from  ledge  to  ledge  they  sprang 
Unceasingly : 

SONG   OF   THE  WATERFALL. 

Up  in  the  mountain 

I  leave  the  fountain 
Where  my  glittering  crystals  first  saw  the  light 

My  course,  unending, 

Forever  wending, 
I  journey  along  by  day  and  by  night. 

Hurrying  ever — 

Loitering  never, 
Hither  and  thither,  my  way  I  take  ; 

Gallantly  leaping — 

Silently  creeping 
Over  the  rocky  ledge — under  the  brake. 

Under  the  noonlight — 

Under  the  moonlight — 
Under  the  pale  blue  gleam  of  the  stars ; 

Darting  and  quivering, 

Starting  and  shivering. 
My  bosom  all  bright  with  their  silver  bars. 


THE  WATERFALL.  12/ 

By  rock  or  heather, 

Spite  of  all  weather, 
The  mountains  reecho  my  murmuring  song; 

Ne'er  am  I  lonely — 
,  One  purpose  only 
In  all  my  bright  ripples  that  hurry  along. 

Ne'er  do  I  waver 

From  fear  or  from  favor — 
From  summer's  soft  smiles,  or  from  winter's  sharp 
cold. 

Streams,  slowly  stealing. 

May  know  congealing. 
But  never  a  spirit  that's  steadfast  and  bold. 

Ne'er  am  I  weary, 

Lightsome  or  dreary 
The  wildering  way  that  is  given  me  to  tread ; 

Be  the  sun  beaming, 

Or  lightning  gleaming 
Through  the  dark  thunder-cloud  looming  o'er- 
head. 


Singing  or  sighing. 

Onward  still  hying. 

Ne'er  can  I  pause  till  my  journey  is  done ; 


128  KINDESLIEBE. 

Ever  in  motion 
Till,  in  the  ocean, 
I  mingle  forever  my  waters  in  one. 


Thus  with  the  rhythm  of  the  stream. 
Her  long-repressed  emotions  seem 
With  freshen'd  energy  to  move. 
She  hears  an  inward  voice  approve 
The  spirit  of  its  endless  song, 
As,  eddying  the  rocks  among, 
It  speeds,  so  resolute  and  strong. 

No  longer  on  the  turf  she  lies, 

As  one  all  listless  and  forlorn. 
A  fli-e  is  kindled  in  her  eyes. 

Not  new,  but  only  newly  born. 
She  stands  erect  upon  her  feet, 

And  bears  her  patient  head  to  Heaven. 
She  renders  thanks  and  praises  meet 

For  strength  and  courage  freshly  given  : 
Then,  as  her  wav'ring  spirit  grows 
The  stronger  for  the  brief  repose, 
She  summons  all  its  latent  might ; 
Prepares  again  for  that  fierce  fight, 
So  oft  resumed — so  often  lost, 
.And  that  at  such  a  bitter  cost 


'■■!*•  .V-    •.. 


•  lAji :>!■,,  :•■  .A  ,■■■•■:■  ■ 

■■■:•      iv.'V.  ,,'-V'    '    ..■■■ 


■>s;' 


:;^'/'W:''' 


^^^  KINDESLIEDE. 


"<gt)er  \n  motion 
^i(i,  in  f8f  ocean. 
5  mtngfe  foroofr  mg  iwafcrt  in  one." 


THE   WATKRFALL. 

Of  inward  self-reproach  and  pain 
And  fondest  yearnings,  foully  slain. 

As  one  before  the  altar  kneels 

With  spirit  wholly  consecrate, 
And  all  the  solemn  influence  feels 

Which  on  Divinity  doth  wait: 
So,  in  that  temple— which  alone 

The  overarching  heavens  spanned. 
And  where  each  tree  and  pillared  stone 

A  silent  witness  seemed  to  stand- 
Repeating  o'er  her  solemn  vow 
And  ne'er  more  resolute  than  now. 
She  sought  within  that  rocky  shrine 
Some  gleam  upon  her  path  to  shine 
Some  friendly  hand  to  lift  the  pall-- 
That  held  concealed  her  hope— her  all. 


129 


«w^ili-T--»y'^pi/T51»rt'i"^  'ItSiw*^  V'".-!** '   ' 


Canto  XVI. 


THE  ANNUAL  FAIR. 


A  quaint  old  town  beside  the  Rhine, 
Whose  burghers'  jolly  faces  shine 
With  home-brewed  ale  and  native  wine  - 
Whose  busy  streets,  all  brave  and  gay, 
Proclaim  a  public  holiday. 

All  densely  packed  the  public  square 
By  village  maids  with  braided  hair 
In  dark-blue  kirtles — scarlet  hose, 
And  peasant  lads  in  Sunday  clothes  : 
By  ancient  dames  in  brave  array 
Whose  style  dates  back  full  many  a  day, 
And  which,  preserved  with  jealous  care, 
But  sees  the  light  at  seasons  rare — 
A  christening,  funeral,  or  fair. 


THE   ANNUAL   FAIR.  I3I 

Here  golden  fruits,  and  flowers  shine — 
The  purple  product  of  the  vine, 
With  many  a  simple  work  of  art 
Where  taste  and  skill  have  done  their  part. 
H'^re  weblike  lace  where  roses  bloom, 
Wrought  by  the  hand  and  not  by  loom, 
And  plaited  goods,  and  wooden-ware 
Carved  with  dexterity  and  care. 

Such  mingled  sight  one  ne'er  can  see, 

Nor  such  a  varied  company 

In  goodly  fellowship  combine 

At  Hoeher-Stoltzenberg-am-Rhein, 

Save  when,  on  such  occasion  rare, 

They  one  and  all  alike  repair 

To  grace  the  city's  annual  fair. 

Amid  the  surging  of  the  crowd, 
Amid  the  talk  and  laughter  loud. 
No  easy  task,  from  place  to  place, 
An  individual  form  to  trace. 
Or  note  each  sound  that  seemed  to  jar, 

Upon  the  list'ner's  ears  between — 
Each  look  of  suffering  that  would  mar 

The  festive  aspect  of  the  scene. 


7-  -J-- 


132 


KINDESLIEBE. 


And  SO,  when  mirth  was  at  its  height, 

One  gentle  soul  that  long  had  striven 
With  grief,  was  pluming  for  its  flight 

To  final  rest  and  peace  in  Heaven  ; 
And  one  new  visitant  to  earth 

Lay,  helpless,  on  a  breast  of  stone, 
Pleading  to  her  who  gave  it  birth 

In  pitiful,  yet  fruitless  moan. 
A  lamentable  sight  to  see 
Is  weak,  untended  infancy  ! 


But  on  one  solitary  form 

Full  many  a  curious  eye  was  cast. 
For  like  a  bark — survived  the  storm — 

It  bore  the  marks  of  conflict  past: 
The  very  calm  those  eyes  that  fill 
Bore  witness  to  the  tumult  still. 
And  never  failed  to  fix  the  gaze 
That  o'er  that  wond'rous  visage  strays. 

Yet,  all  regardless  of  the  din 

Through  which  she  moved  unfalt'ringly, 
Sustained  but  by  the  grace  within, 

Pressed,  constant  still,  Marie  de  Luys. 


."v  .'-  ^~y.\~ 


„,^y 


THE   ANNUAL   FAIR.  1 33 

Some  tidings  sad  of  deepest  woe 
Had  reached  her  sympathetic  ears, 

And,  from  their  crystal  depths  below, 
Had  drawn  the  ever- ready  tears. 

Taught  by  experience  in  the  past, 

Her  charity  ne'er  failed  to  cast 

O'er  ev'ry  form  of  earth's  distress 

That  mantle  God  'bove  all  doth  bless, 

Woven  of  love  and  tenderness. 

Her  willing  feet  had  found  the  road 
To  want  and  sorrow's  dark  abode ; 
And,  fired  with  eager  love  and  zeal — 
As  prompt  to  act,  as  quick  to  feel — 
Was  seeking  in  her  hiding-place 
Some  child  of  suff'ring  or  disgrace. 
Who  once — 'twas  told — of  lineage  high, 

Had  fallen  from  her  proud  estate — 
A  fair  young  mother,  left  to  die 

Forgotten,  hopeless,  desolate. 
Leaving  a  babe  on  earth's  bleak  wild. 
On  which  no  father's  eye  had  smiled. 
To  the  rude  pity — foster  care 
But  of  an  aged,  sordid  pair 
Who  knew  no  sympathy  for  pain, 
And  served  alone  for  hope  of  gain. 


134 


KINDESLIEBE. 


An  attic  in  a  narrow  street 

Whose  upper  stories  well-nigh  meet 

O'er  an  impenetrable  shade 

Where  loitering  sunbeam  never  played. 

Here,  on  a  mean,  neglected  bed 

A  fragile  form,  in  beauty  spread, 

Lay,  like  a  lovely  lily — flower 

Fresh  from  some  sweet  and  bloomy  bower. 

Whose  delicate  and  bruised  stem 

Had  on  the  earth  its  diadem 

To  hopeless  ruin  sadly  given, 

No  more  to  court  the  smiles  of  Heaven. 

Too  late  to  stay  the  hand  of  Death, 

This  welcome  friend  in  hour  of  strife ; 
Yet  not  too  late  from  parting  breath 

To  learn  the  history  of  a  life ; 
A  life  of  cruel,  bitter  wrong — 
A  life,  in  patient  faith,  how  strong  ! 
Pure  as  the  cloudless  heaven  above, 
And  whose  one  fault  was — truest  love. 


And  not  too  late  to  give  her  rest 
Upon  that  tried  and  faithful  breast ; 
Or  those  fast-fleeting  moments  cheer, 
And  calm  each  fond  maternal  fear. 


THE   ANNUAL    FAIR. 


13s 


.\h  !  not  too  late  to  sun  a  soul 

In  that  last  ling'ring  smile  of  peace 

Which  sometimes  comes,  when,  near  the  goal, 
All  tumults  of  the  conflict  cease. 

Ah !  not  too  late  to  set  the  sign, 

On  that  pale  brow,  of  love  divine. 

And  well  repaid  were  all  her  fears. 
And  all  her  bosom's  tender  care. 

In  that  sweet  babe  which,  born  to  tears, 
From  out  the  waste,  found  refuge  there ; 

Which  brought  within  that  faithful  ark — 

Long  driven  upon  the  waters  dark — 

A  beauty  and  a  light  which  gave 

A  type  of  life  beyond  the  grave. 

And  richer  still  the  recompense, 
She  finds  by  Heaven's  high  award. 

In  all  the  joy  it  doth  dispense. 

When  brought  to  light  that  secret  hoard 

Which  from  the  brave  and  constant  heart 

The  hand  of  Death  alone  could  part 

Ah  !  precious  gift  by  love  bequeathed. 

A  necklet,  fair,  of  gleaming  pearls : 
A  locket,  where  are  found  envvreathed 

Two  intertwining,  clinging  curls — 


:7-  'iF^fTT-'; 


136  KINDESLIEBE. 

One  darksome  as  the  ebon  night, 
One,  like  the  sunh'ght,  golden  bright : 
A  marriage  record ;  and  with  these 
A  miniature,  in  which  she  sees — 
Ah  !  can  it  be,  his  race  is  run  ?  — 
The  features  of  her  long-sought  son. 

What  need  of  further  evidence 
To  satisfy  that  inward  sense, 
The  gift  to  woman's  innocence  ? 
That  lofty  brow — those  eyes  of  fire, 
Reveal  the  husband,  son  and  sire. 
She  sees  the  partner  of  her  prime — 
O'erleaping  all  the  lapse  of  time — 
Stand  once  again  before  her  sight 
In  manly  pride  and  beauty  bright. 

And  now,  at  last,  the  riddle's  read. 
Her  child — her  long-sought  son  is  dead. 
And  she,  his  bride — so  sadly  won, 
By  purest  love  alone  undone — 
Is  scion  of  a  noble  race. 
Who,  high  in  lineage  and  in  place, 
Had  scorned  his  seeming  low  estate 
And  hurried  with  relentless  hate 
The  helpless  pair  to  hapless  fate, 


■  ■■'""^         ''  c '^    -     ^  *^^  ^^ 


THE   ANNUAL    FAIR. 

Leaving  but  in  these  relics  three 
A  clew  to  their  sad  history. 

T*  *|»  9|C  9|C  SfC  ?)C  3|C 

How  close  the  secret  she  had  kept ; 
How  long  before  her  anger  slept 
Against  a  house  which  scorned  to  own 
Offspring  as  noble  as  its  own, 
Until  the  retribution  came 
And  quench'd  resentment's  cruel  flame- 
It  boots  not  here  to  pause  to  tell. 
In  her  lone  cabin  guarded  well, 
Secure  from  ev'ry  curious  eye, 
The  child  had  passed  her  infancy. 
Destroyed  was  every  single  trace 
That  might  betray  her  hiding-place, 
In  whom  two  races  now  combine 
To  form  one  common,  noble  line 
By  the  commingled  ancestry 
Of  Rudersdorf  and  of  de  Luy. 


137 


Canto  XVII. 


THE  BARON. 


The  sun's  meridian  heat  is  past, 
And  Nature  wakes  to  life  at  last. 
A  gentle  breeze  steals  down  the  hill 
And  rustles  'mid  the  copses  still. 
The  birds  that  throng  the  rough  hillside 
Prepare  to  greet  the  eventide, 
And  tune  their  tender  throats  to  raise 
Their  wonted  evensong  of  praise. 
Broader  the  grateful  shadows  creep, 
While  purer  airs  the  spirit  steep. 
The  charm,  relaxed,  no  longer  holds 
All  Nature  in  its  mystic  folds. 

A  sweeter  fragrance  is  distilled. 

With  murmuring  sounds  the  air  is  fiU'd. 


THE    BARON.  I  39 

The  streamlet  sings  in  louder  strain. 

The  laborer  plies  his  toil  again. 

The  river  ripples  'mid  the  reeds. 

The  ploughmen  urge  the  flagging  steeds. 

O'er  hill  above — o'er  vale  below 

There  comes  a  soft  and  crimson  glow 

To  glorify  the  varied  scene 

On  which  the  little  sylvan  queen 

Looks,  trembling,  forth  from  bower  green. 

But  soon  she  leaves  her  mossy  throne 

And,  eager,  scans  the  pathway  lone ; 

A  fluttering  in  her  childish  heart. 

Yet  all  resolved  to  do  her  part. 

Spirit  and  flesh  alike  confess 

A  curious  kind  of  passiveness; 

As  though  the  powers  invisible 

Her  inward  thoughts  and  acts  compel — 

Her  spirit  with  a  purpose  fill. 

And  make  her  every  movement  still 

The  subject  of  a  stronger  will. 

Rare  picture,  such  as  artists  love— 
Which  all  to  tenderness  might  move, 
That  childish  form,  so  slight  and  fair, 
With  cheeks  all  flushed  and  streaming  hair, 


140 


KINDESLIEBE. 


With  parted  lips — expectant  gaze, 
Piercing  the  balmy  ev'ning  haze, 
Unconscious  of  the  fact  that  she, 
Though  robed  in  sweet  simplicity, 
Is  one  of  Heav'n's  own  ministry. 

But,  lo  !  the  sound  of  coming  feet 
Invade  the  silent,  safe  retreat. 
A  form  familiar  now  ascends 
The  rugged  path,  and  slowly  wends 
His  upward  way  o'er  stock  and  stone. 
All  listless,  purposeless,  alone. 
His  frame  is  bent,  his  silvered  hair 
But  little  recks  of  taste  or  care. 
His  mien  is  born  of  high  command. 
Though  trembles,  on  his  staff,  his  hand. 
Each  feature  of  his  chiseled  face, 
Together  with  a  nameless  grace, 
Proclaim  alike  his  rank  and  race 
More  truly  than  the  star  which  clings 
Upon  his  breast,  and  gleaming,  flings 
Each  glancing  ray  of  crimson  light 
Back  from  its  jewels,  flashing  bright. 

Ah  !  well  the  child  that  figure  knew  : 
Unknown,  indeed,  it  was  to  few. 


THE    IIARON. 

Since  every  single  rood  of  ground 
He  owned  for  many  a  mile  around ; 
And  none  that  looked  upon  that  form 
In  council-hall,  or  battle's  storm — 
In  garb  of  peace,  or  girt  with  sword. 
But  knew  him — Rudersdorf 's  stern  lord. 
And  bared  the  head  to  let  him  by 
In  sad,  respectful  sympathy. 

The  i^abe  upon  its  mother's  knee 
Had  1  :arned  that  life's  sad  history ; 
And  many  a  word  of  wrath  and  scorn, 
And  tyrannous  deed  were  meekly  borne 
In  memory  of  the  burden  laid 
Upon  that  bowed  and  silvered  head. 
And  crones,  the  village  hearth  beside, 
Within  the  chimney,  gaping  wide, 
Would  tell  amid  the  deep'ning  gloom 
That  fills  the  peasant's  lowly  room, 
Like  bard  of  old,  enthroned  in  state. 
The  lofty  deeds  of  love  or  hate, 
And  all  the  honors  thick  that  shine 
On  Rudersdorf's  illustrious  line. 


141 


How,  ever  foremost  in  the  field, 
Its  sons  might  die  but  never  yield ; 


142 


kindicsi.ikim:. 


How,  in  the  thickest  of  the  fray, 
No  warriors  terrible  as  they ; 
How,  when  victorious  o'er  the  foe. 
None  could  more  gcn'rous  pity  know ; 
How,  ranged  upon  the  ancient  walls 
Within  their  proud  ancestral  halls, 
Were  trophies  hung  in  grand  array, 
The  spoils  of  many  a  bloody  day ; 
And  how  both  king  and  kaiser,  too. 
Had  given  them  aye  the  honor  due. 

Then,  sinking  to  a  softer  strain. 
They  told  of  sorrow,  wrath,  and  pain; 
Of  beauty  plucked  in  fairest  pride 
When  Rudersdorf's  fair  mistress  died ; 
Of  that  pale  bud  upon  her  breast 
That  only  lived  to  share  her  rest 
Beneath  the  stately,  hallowed  shrine 
Where  sleep  a  long  illustrious  line. 

They  told  of  youth  in  sweetest  prime. 
All  dead  and  withered  ere  its  time ; 
Of  dawning  manhood  in  its  might — 

All  worthy  of  its  ancient  name — 
Returning  from  the  bloody  fight 

Bereft  of  everything  but  fame; 


-?'  '  •     i 


TllK    liARUN. 


143 


The  last  'mid  clashing  arms  to  bear 
The  proud  insignia  of  his  race, 

And  leave  a  stainless  record,  fair, 

Which  none  might  after  blush  to  trapc. 


. 


';■'■.,"■;  ■'*.*'^'*7'< 


t(xnto  XVIII. 


MARGARETHE. 


And  then,  each  softer  heart  to  move, 
They  wove  the  fair  romaunt  of  love- 
Old  as  mankind,  yet  ever  new, 
Dear  to  the  many,  not  the  few— 
Whose  subtle  tones  ne'er  cease  to  thrill, 
And  in  the  memory  linger  still. 

They  told  of  Margarethe  fair, 

The  loveliest,  sweetest,  brightest  gem 

That  ever  shed  its  lustre  rare 

From  Rudersdorf  s  proud  diadem, 

Renowned  as  it  had  ever  been 

For  beauty,  grace,  and  courtly  mien. 

Ah !  sad  indeed  the  mournful  tale 

At  which  the  maiden's  cheek  g/ew  pale ; 


MARGARETHE. 

Whilst  'neath  her  bodice  flutt'ringly 
The  heart  beat  quick  in  sympathy, 
As,  midway  held  'twixt  grief  and  fear, 
Trembled  the  little  pearly  tear, 
Until  the  story  nears  its  close, 
When,  free,  the  tide  of  sorrow  flows. 

The  brave  old  baron's  dearest  pride, 
Through  whom  he  hoped  to  be  allied 
With  Reifenstein's  illustrious  heir, 
And  many  an  ancient  feud  repair — 
Hcv,  from  her  childhood,  had  he  set 

His  hopes  upon  this  scion,  sweet. 
From  that  old  stock  which  ne'er  as  yet 

Had  failed  of  grace  and  honor  meet ! 
And,  as  in  beauty  still  she  grew 

And  wider  homage  yet  could  claim, 
A  brighter  picture  still  he  drew 

Of  earthly  dignity  and  fame. 

He  saw  her  fairest  of  the  fair 

Around  his  monarch's  ancient  throne, 
Whose  lineage  high  could  scarcely  share 

A  brighter  lustre  than  his  own, 
On  whom  so  rare  a  fortune  smiled. 
The  parent  of  a  queenly  child 


145 


146 


KINDESLIEBE. 


Who  in  her  person  should  unite — 
Now  that  his  heir  had  died  in  fight — 
Two  houses  by  one  common  band ; 
Who  'mong  the  first  in  all  the  land, 
Than  he,  should  wider  fame  command  ? 

But,  ah !  whilst  wiser  heads  will  scheme. 
Youth  still  must  dream  its  idle  dream, 
Weaving,  regardless  all  of  fate. 
Its  chaplets  fair ;  but  when  too  late 
Perceiving  what  Love  had  concealed — 
The  poison  yet  to  be  revealed- - 
And  reaping  on  the  arid  plain 
Of  disappointment  and  of  pain 
But  useless  chaff  for  bearded  grain. 

And  yet,  perchance,  when  all  is  told, 
'Tis  hard  the  balance,  true,  to  hold. 
How  weigh,  'gainst  worldly  greed  and  art, 
The  impulse  of  a  fresh  young  heart  ? 
A  loveless  life  in  stately  halls. 
With  home  where  true  affection  calls  ? 
A  spirit,  chafing,  crushed  and  bound. 
Like  captive  treading  daily  round. 
With  one,  though  breathing  freer  air, 
Consumed  by  many  a  sordid  care  ? 


/ 


MARGARETHE.  147 

Shall,  every  other  want  supplied, 
Only  heart-hunger  be  denied  ? 
Or  must,  to  meet  a  need  like  this, 
Be  bartered,  all  the  world  deems  bliss  ? 

'Tis  well  a  wiser  Mind  than  ours— 
So  limited  in  all  its  powers — 
Controls  and  guides  our  poor  affairs, 
And  portions  out  our  joys  and  cares ; 
And,  throned  upon  the  judgment  seat. 
Assigns  to  each  condition  meet. 
Weaving  of  grace  and  purpose  free 
The  web  which  we  call  "  destiny." 

Ah  !  sad  the  web  which  truest  love 
For  gentle  Margarethe  wove. 
When  'cross  her  path  there  came  a  light. 
So  dazzling,  beautiful  and  bright, 
That,  list'ning  only  to  the  heart 

That  beat  so  wildly  in  her  breast. 
She  chose  the  purer,  loftier  part. 

And  left  to  Providence  the  rest. 

A  young  adventurer  at  the  court — 
So  was  he  styled — the  mischief  wrought. 
Young,  brave  and  debonair  was  he. 
Though  boasting  naught  of  ancestry, 


148 


KINDESLIEBE. 


Or  wealth  or  favor,  he  had  won 
The  notice  of  a  prince's  son ; 
And  hence,  as  friendship's  fond  award, 
His  rank  among  the  royal  guard. 

He  saw  and  loved,  and  so  did  she ; 
For  both,  alike,  were  fancy  free. 
Each  had  a  warm  and  generous  heart, 
Which  needed  but  its  counterpart 
Round  which  to  twine  its  tendrils  strong. 
Unconscious  all  of  harm  or  wrong. 
Each  gathered  from  their  mutual  love 
A  bliss  all  earthly  bliss  above. 

How  they  could  meet  and  interchange 

Their  tender  thoughts  and  solemn  vows 
Within  the  strict  and  narrow  range 

Which  courtly  etiquette  allows. 
Will,  likely,  never  be  betrayed  ; 
Since  long  ago  the  play  was  played, 
And  all  the  characters  have  left 

The  little  stage  on  which  they  moved, 
Of  ev'ry  other  memory  reft 

Excepting  that— they  lived  and  loved. 


MARGARETHE.  I49 

There  is  a  language,  we  are  told, 

By  no  material  laws  controlled, 

Which  all  our  inmost  nature  stirs, 

Yet  needs  no  written  characters : 

Which  makes  its  meaning  plain  and  clear, 

Though  not  a  sound  may  reach  the  ear 

To  wake  responsive  hope  or  fear. 

To  any  sense  alone  confined. 

It  yet  can  pass  from  mind  to  mind. 

Yea,  were  all  outward  senses  still, 

A  something  yet  remains  to  thrill ; 

And  soul  will  still  be  drawn  to  soul. 

As  moves  the  needle  to  the  pole. 

Two  clouds  may  float  in  liquid  air 
And  all  may  be  serene  and  fair, 
If  each  pursue  its  separate  flight 
Through  the  wide  fields  of  azure  light. 
But,  if  in  closer  contact  brought, 
How  quick  the  transformation  wrought ! 
The  subtle  fluid  each  contained 
No  longer  now  may  rest  restrained ; 
But,  in  one  common  force  combined, 
A  fearful  energy  will  find, 


ISO 


KINDESLIEBE. 


And  generate  so  fierce  a  heat 

That  Nature  reels  before  the  shock, 

Which  makes  her  pulses  madly  beat 
And  rends  in  twain  the  living  rock. 

E'en  so  it  is  with  youth  and  maid 
When  once  the  fatal  train  is  laid, 
And  from  the  welkin,  still  and  dark, 
Hath  gleamed  the  swift  electric  spark. 
No  human  power  can  then  withstand 
Or  stay  the  tempest  with  its  hand, 
Although  too  well  it  may  foresee 
How  awful  the  catastrophe  : 
Nor  is  there  forged  on  earth  a  chain 
Its  headlong  fury  can  restrain. 

"  Love,  in  his  sleeve,"  'tis  said,  "  will  laugh 
At  bolts  and  bars,  and  ever  quaff 
A  sweeter  pleasure  from  the  prize 
That's  strictly  watched  with  jealous  eyes." 
Be  this  sage  judgment  as  it  may, 
'Tis  patent  as  the  light  of  day 
That,  spite  of  all  that  may  assail, 
He  will  declare  his  tender  tale. 


'(•     ':'••■<  ■\^'^'"  ' 


MAKGARKTHE,  I5I 

And  SO  it  chanced  on  one  fair  day — 
When  all  beh'eved  her  bridal  near — 

The  court  was  filled  with  blank  dismay 
And  paralyzed  by  awe  and  fear ; 

For  vanished  from  the  stately  scene 

Was  she  who  late  had  peerless  been — 

The  loveliest  of  the  vestal  band 

Which  round  their  royal  mistress  stand. 

The  pride  of  Rudersdorf  was  gone — 

Not  from  her  father's  arms  alone, 

But  from  the  shelter  of  the  throne. 

Was  ever  breach  more  heinous  known 

In  all  the  quaint  old  records  yet 

Of  courtly  rule  and  etiquette? 

If  wrong  the  deed,  love  bear  the  blame  ! 
Yet  soon  the  retribution  came. 
The  bridegroom,  ruined  and  disgraced  — 
His  rank  revoked,  his  name  effaced — 
Dared  not  withstand  the  royal  wrath, 
Nor  cross  a  vengeful  parent's  path ; 
But  hastened  from  the  land  to  flee 
And  perished  in  obscurity. 

The  bride,  renounced  by  king  and  sire, 
Could  not  endure  a  parent's  ire, 


",-'w.---ij^mr' 


'     1 


152  KINDESLIEBE. 

But  drooped  before  the  bitter  blast, 
Like  tender  blossom  on  its  stem ; 
And  so  another  jewel  was  cast 

From  Rudersdorf's  proud  diadem. 
She  only  lived  to  close  the  eyes 
Of  him  she  followed  to  the  skies, 
Leaving  to  one  whose  yearnint;  heart 
Desired  no  sweeter,  better  part, 
The  seal  the  Father's  hand  had  set 
On  that  young  love,  which  slaughtered,  yet 
Had  known  no  feeling  of  regret; 
But  which  alike,  as  each  had  seen. 
Their  highest  bliss  and  woe  had  been. 


I 


tanio  XIX. 


EDELWEISS. 

Still,  to  the  only  blossom  spared— 

A  gi.-l,  blue  eyed  and  golden  haired 

The  old  man  in  his  anger  turned, 

As  substitute  for  her  he  spurned. 

On  her  he  lavished  all  the  store 

Of  earthly  love  his  bosom  bore. 

No  voice,  like  hers,  his  heart  could  thrill. 

He  knew  no  law  but  her  sweet  will  : 

With  her  forgot  his  wrath  and  tears— 

His  blighted  hopes  and  anxious  fears— 

Th'  increasing  burden  of  his  years. 

He  called  her  "bird  of  paradise," 

His  "//M^  I'/ei/ie  Edelweiss;'' 

And  never  seemed  to  know  delight 

But  when  he  held  her  in  his  sight 
8 


. 


154  KINDESLIEBE. 

In  truth,  she  was  a  winsome  cliild 
As  ever  on  a  parent  smiled  ; 
And  well  the  little  tyrant  knew 
The  subtle  power  by  which  she  drcw- 
Stronger  than  any  band  of  steel — ■ 
Her  captive  at  her  chariot  wheel. 
But,  soon,  a  light  broke  on  the  scene. 
With  childish  intuition,  keen, 
She  pierced  the  sorrow  of  the  breast 
On  which  she  loved  her  head  to  rest. 
And  vowed  with  tender  constancy — 
Her  life  henceforth  should  ever  be 
To  him  a  perfect  ministry. 

But  when  again  bereavement  came, 
And  she — the  last  to  bear  his  name — 
Faded  before  his  yearning  eyes 
And  left  hin  for  th'  impatient  skies, 
Vanquished  at  last  by  pain  and  care, 
He  yielded  to  a  dark  despair. 
The  spirit,  strong,  had  lost  its  power. 
The  gen'rous  heart  began  to  sour. 
Till  he,  who  once  was  loved  of  all 
In  peasant's  Lut  and  noble's  hall, 
Grew  stern  and  pitiless  as  fate, 
The  object  of  a  smothered  hate. 


EDELWEISS.  155 

Then,  all  impatient  of  his  lot, 

The  wrath  which  long  had  slumbered  not. 

His  loneliness  and  grief  allayed. 

Against  her  one  offense  arrayed. 

He  set  his  yearning  and  his  ruth — 

Her  weak  and  inexperienced  youth  ; 

And  by  the  little  new-raised  grave 

He  sorrowed,  pitied,  and  forgave. 

And  sought  with  penitential  tears 

The  child  he  spurned  in  earlier  years. 

But,  ah !  too  late  I  too  late  regret  1 
The  light  of  that  young  life  had  set — 
Had  set  in  darkness  and  distress. 
No  tender  touch,  no  fond  caress 
Was  there  to  take  the  sting  from  death ; 
No  friend  to  watch  the  parting  breath. 
By  stranger  hands  her  eyelids  sealed — 
Her  name  and  rank  alike  concealed, 
A  little  heap  of  sodded  ground. 
As  sole  memorial,  was  found, 
Of  her  whose  fault — if  fault,  above — 
Was  that  she  simply  dared — to  love. 


What  wonder  that  the  heart  grew  cold. 
Where  such  a  history  might  be  told? 


■W     >    1"  I"   IT'- 


156  KINDLSLIEBE. 

That — wounded,  hcartsore,  desolate — 

He  well-nigh  loathed  his  rank  and  state, 

And  left  to  cold  and  selfish  hands 

Both  duty's,  yea,  and  fame's  demands  ? 

Till,  through  the  country  far  and  wide, 

That  race  was  scorned,  once  named  with  pride. 

And  Rudersdorf's  princely  domain, 

Where  peace  and  plenty  once  did  reign, 

Became  one  universal  scene 

Of  tyranny  and  avarice,  mean. 

******** 

On  this  sad  history,  often  heard. 

The  mountain  child  had  sadly  mused, 
As  pity,  sweet,  her  heart  had  stirred 

And  tears  her  gentle  eyes  suffused. 
Full  oft,  when,  sporting  by  the  brook. 

She  saw  the  old  man,  lonely,  pass, 
She'd  steal  a  sympathizing  look, 

Half  hidden  in  the  ferns  and  grass. 
But  never,  to  the  left  or  right, 

Was  once  the  Baron  known  to  turn. 
Upon  the  ground  was  fixed  his  sight. 

His  aspect,  proud  and  cold  and  stern. 


EDELWEISS. 

Seemed  ne'er  to  catch  a  softer  glow 
From  all  the  beaming  heavens  above, 

Nor,  by  the  smiling  earth  below, 
Was  won  to  kindness  and  to  love. 

But  now,  beneath  an  impulse,  strange, 

She  does  not  dare  to  disobey, 
All  wondering  at  the  sudden  change, 

She  seeks  the  narrow,  rocky  way. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  blushing  cheek— 
With  graceful  attitude  and  meek, 
She  stands  an  instant  in  his  path  : 
And  then,  as  if  to  ward  his  wrath, 
She  drops  upon  her  bended  knee 
In  sweet,  old-fashioned  courtesy, 
Lifting  above  her  drooping  head 

Her  simple  wild-wood  offering. 
O'er  which  kind  Nature's  hand  had  spread 

The  perfumes,  manifold,  which  cling. 

How  will  he  view  her  action  bold  ? 
And  she,  so  young,  and  he,  so  old; 
He,  of  so  lofty  a  degree, 
And  she,  a  child  of  poverty; 
He,  with  the  star  upon  his  breast, 
And  she,  so  poorly,  coarsely  drcst. 


»5; 


I5«^  KINDESLIEBE. 

Ne'er  had  she  scanned,  with  spirit  sore, 
Her  humble  raiment  thus  before ; 
Been  conscious  of  her  tangled  hair — 
Her  limbs  and  feet,  so  brown  and  bare. 

And  well  might  thoughts  like  these  career 
Through  slA  the  labyrinth  of  her  brain, 
As,  alternating,  hope  and  fear 

Within  her  throbbing  bosom  reign  : 
For,  standing  rooted  to  the  ground. 
Like  timepiece  in  its  daily  round 
All  sudden  checked,  the  baron's  gaze 
Seemed  as  obscured  by  sudden  haze. 
He  stood,  as  in  a  gloom  profound, 
Straining  the  ear  for  guiding  sound. 

Then,  dreamily,  as  he  who  wakes 

From  deepest  sleep  when  daylight  breaks 

To  flood  with  beauty  all  the  earth 

And  give  a  myriad  flow'rets  birth. 

He  saw  the  child  upon  her  knee. 

All  veiled  in  maiden  modesty. 

He  saw  the  offering  in  her  hand — 

Fair  product  of  the  mountain  land, 

And  read,  in  its  simplicity, 

i  ler  sweet  and  childlike  sympathy. 


EDELWEISS.  1 59 

0 

A  tremor  passed  through  all  his  frame, 
As  to  his  eyes  the  moisture  came. 
The  flood-gates,  closed  for  many  years 
Scarce  held  the  rising  tide  of  tears. 
His  voice  grew  husky,  low,  and  weak — 
He  dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak  ; 
But,  bending  to  the  kneeling  child — 
More  lovely  'mid  that  mountain  wild — 
He  lifts  her  gently  from  the  ground — 
Looks  for  an  instant,  wond'ring,  round  : 
Then,  gazing  in  her  deep  blue  eyes — 
Wide  open  now  with  mute  surprise — 
As  one  who  pierces  through  the  skies, 
In  low,  half-uttered  accents  cries — 
**  Liebe  kleine  Edelweiss  !" 

A  moment—  and,  the  weakness  past. 
The  skies  again  are  overcast — 
The  precious  vision  qu'ckly  flown, 
And  he  is  once  again — alone. 

Ali  kindly  on  the  drooping  head 

A  trembling  hand  is  lightly  laid; 

A  tear  lies  on  the  open  brow 

From  which  all  fear  hath  vanish'd  now, 

And  once  again  he  breasts  the  hill 

As  fall  the  ev'ning  shadows  chill. 


tanio  XX. 


AT  REST. 


Twere  sweet  tu  tell  in  simple  song 
How,  constant,  thro'  the  summer  long 
The  little  maid  at  close  of  day- 
Would  meet  the  Baron  on  his  way, 
And  never,  as  the  sunlight  paled, 
To  pay  her  simple  tribute  failed. 

Not  as  the  sullen  vassal  yields 

The  hard-earned  produce  of  his  fields. 

But  as  a  simple,  tender  heart 

Will  seek  its  pity  to  impart : 

Not  in  the  firstlings  of  the  fold — 

In  luscious  fruits,  or  grain,  or  gold  : 

Only  the  wildflowcrs,  sweet,  that  wreathe 

Thy  woods  and  dells,  fair  Fatherland  ! 
And  their  fond  memory  bequeath 

To  thy  brave  sons  on  distant  strand  ; 


AT   RFST.  16 1 

And  which — in  exile,  sickness,  death — 
To  many  a  wand'rer  on  the  earth, 

Come,  h'ke  a  fresh,  reviving  breath. 

From  the  dear  soil  that  gave  him  birth. 

'Twere  sweet  to  tell  how,  sad  and  stern, 

He  gave  her,  first,  but  little  heed ; 
Would  scarce  his  glance  upon  her  turn. 

But,  silent,  on  his  path  proceed  : 
How,  soon,  the  listless  eye  would  light 
Upon  that  picture,  pure  and  bright. 
Until  a  moist'ning  of  the  eye — 

A  nervous  trembling  in  the  hand 
•  That  on  his  staff  pressed  heavily, 

■.Vould  shew  the  effort  to  command 
The  rising  tide  that  surged  below 
And  threatened  instant  overflow. 

But,  as  the  daylight  comes  and  goes, 

That  slender  form  familiar  grows; 

And  dearer,  yea,  and  dearer  yet. 

That  picture,  fair,  so  rudely  set. 

And  as  he  sees  the  childish  awe 

Melt  into  soft  and  sunny  smiles, 

What  could  the  chill  heart  do  but  thaw 

Before  such  captivating  wiles 
8* 


J. 


1 62  KINDESLIEBE. 

As  rarely  fail  to  thrill  the  soul 
And  make  it  own  their  soft  control  ? 

So,  day  by  day,  his  way  he  took 
Past  mossy  bank  and  babbling  brook. 
A  something — what  he  could  not  tell — 
Would  lead  him  still  towards  the  fell ; 
A  something  that  his  heart  would  crave — 
A  something  that  the  contact  gave. 

As  Memory  links  some  scene  gone  by 
With  passing  glint  of  summer  sky ; 
With  ling'ring  echo  of  a  strain 
That  thrilled  with  mingled  joy  and  pain ; 
With  parting  breath  of  perfume,  sweet, 

Exhaled  in  softer,  sunnier  climes, 
Which  comes,  the  vacant  heart,  to  greet 

From  the  dead  joys  of  earlier  times  : 
So  to  each  charmed  and  thrilling  sense 

Would  these  their  subtle  power  dispense. 

And  so  the  summer  days  went  by, 
And  suns  uprose  and  set  again. 

And  flowers  came  to  bloom  and  die. 
And  ruddier  grew  the  .-ipening  grain. 


AT    REST.  163 

And  so  within  the  old  man's  breast 

Still  mellower  grew  the  frozen  heart, 
As  to  the  rugged  mountain-crest 

Sunset  doth  warmer  hue  impart. 
His  eyes  had  learned  to  seek  the  place 

Where,  tye,  the  childish  figure  stood 
With  downcast  look  and  glowing  face, 

Sweet  denizen  of  fell  and  wood. 
Perhaps  himself  could  scarcely  tell 
How  strong  the  tie,  how  sweet  the  spell 
Which  Past  and  Present  wrought  so  well: 
Yet,  in  the  answering  look  and  smile 
Her  simple,  childish  arts  beguile. 
The  little  "  oread,"  doubtless,  read 
How  surely  had  her  mission  sped. 

But,  on  an  autumn  eve,  it  chanced, 

Deserted  was  the  rocky  way. 
Ne'er  had  the  golden  sunbeams  danced 

More  lightly  on  each  quiv'ring  spray. 
Ne'er  had  a  softer,  balmier  air 
Breathed  on  those  scenes  so  passing  fair. 
Ne'er  sang  the  birds  in  blither  tone  ; 
Nor,  gayer,  on  its  pathway,  lone. 
Rippled  the  brook  o'er  turf  and  slone. 


164  KINDESLIEIJE, 

Upon  the  distant  forest,  dun, 

The  sinking,  well-nigh  level  sun 

Had  background  formed  of  brown  and  gold, 

A  beauteous  setting,  fit  to  hold 

The  fairest  type  of  form  or  face 

Which  such  a  paradise  could  grace. 

E'en  to  the  Baron's  listless  eye 

The  scene  stood  forth  invitingly, 

As  once  again  he  onward  pressed 

To  the  rough  hill's  familiar  crest. 

But,  where  the  murmuring  brook  did  cross. 

All  deviously,  the  mountain  way. 
What  was  the  sudden  sense  of  loss 

That  seemed  his  upward  path  to  stay  ? 

There  stood  before  him,  in  the  wild. 
No  fairy  form  of  mountain  child 
With  cheeks  aglow.     No  ruddy  hair 
Was  given  to  the  fresh'ning  air. 
From  out  those  orbs  of  deepest  blue. 
Beamed  not  the  glance,  so  pure  and  true. 
Whose  tender  light  he  loved  to  greet. 
There  shone  no  fair  and  dimpled  feet 
Upon  the  turf,  so  soft  and  green. 
Where,  late,  was  wont,  the  syl .ai  queen, 
To  stand  in  innocence  serene. 


AT    KEST.  165 

Unlifted  were  the  slender  hands 

Which  had  unwound  the  Past's  stern  bands, 

And,  by  their  simple  offering,  won 

To  life  and  hope,  a  heart  undone. 

He  paused  an  instant,  troubled — dazed, 
Then  eagerly  around  him  gazed. 
If  haply,  thro'  the  leafy  screen. 
That  childish  form  might  yet  be  seen. 
But  when  upon  his  heart,  forlorn, 
Th'  unwelcome  truth  at  length  was  borne, 
It  seemed  a  sudden  weakness  came. 
A  trembling  seized  his  stalwart  frame, 
And,  sinking  on  a  friendly  stone, 
He  knew  himself  again — alone. 
E'en  this  faint  gleam  of  joy  must  be 
Too  bright  to  gild  his  destiny. 

How  long  he  might  have  wrestled  there 
In  silence  with  his  dark  despair. 
We  may  not  know.     Upon  the  air 
There  came  a  pitiful,  low  moan, 
As  from  those  walls  of  living  stone, 
Followed  by  cries  of  grief  and  pain 
As  leave  but  hearts  whose  love  is  slain. 


l66  KINDESLIEBE. 

Upstarting  with  the  thn'Hing  sound, 
He  gains  the  rock  with  single  bound, 
Where  thro'  tli'  embowering  trees  he  spies 
The  smoke-wreaths  circlinj^'  to  the  skies. 
A  moment,  and  the  porch  is  pass'd — 
His  shadow  on  the  threshold  cast ; 
And,  silent,  o'er  the  earthen  floor 
He  seeks  the  inner  chamber  door. 
'Tis  open;  and  anon  he  sees 
A  group  of  women  on  their  knees 
Around  the  simple  pallet  bed 
Whereon  a  dying  form  is  spread, 
O'er  which  a  hallowed  cahn  is  shed. 

Whatever  pangs  that  spirit  bore  ; 

However  faint  that  heart,  and  sore ; 

Whatever  lines  of  grief  and  care 

Were  ploughed  upon  that  forehead  fair ; 

However  rough  the  pathway  prest 

To  reach  the  goal  of  final  rest ; 

There  now  was  left  no  lingering  trace 

To  mar  the  beauty  of  a  face 

Where  righteousness  and  peace  had  met. 

And  immortality  had  set 

Its  awful  seal. 

*         #         *         )|(         «         m         HI 


I 


AT   REST.  167 

» 

As,  when  the  storm,  its  course,  has  run, 

The  skies  will  clear  at  set  of  sun  ; 

As,  when  hath  passed  the  winter  long, 

Comes  spring  with  perfume  and  with  song ; 

So  often,  at  the  close  of  life — 

Though  one  long  scene  of  pain  and  strife — 

Will  shine  amid  the  gath'ring  cloud 

A  light  which  naught  on  earth  can  shroud, 

Nor  dark,  funereal  plumes  that  wave. 

Nor  all  the  horrors  of  the  grave. 

Beneath  it,  soft,  the  eyelids  close. 

The  weary  spirit  seeks  repose. 

The  hands  fold  gently  on  the  breast 

Where  all  emotion  is  at  rest. 

The  furrows  leave  the  tranquil  brow, 

The  cheeks  assume  a  parting  glow ; 

And  the  whole  aspect  of  the  scene 

Is  full  of  peacefulness  serene. 

******** 

Wjth  dimpled  arms  around  her  thrown — 
The  ruddy  locks  about  her  spread — 

The  child's  fresh  cheek  against  her  own — 
The  parting  soul  had  well-nigh  fled. 

That  shadow  through  the  doorway  cast, 

And  through  the  chamber  gliding  past— 


1 68  KINDESLIEUE, 

Though  not  a  sound  had  reached  the  ear, 
Tells  of  a  human  presence  near, 
And  seems  the  parting  soul  to  stay 
An  instant  on  its  heavenward  way. 

A  smile — so  sweet,  its  only  birth 
Could  be  of  Heaven,  not  of  earth — 
Once  more  relights  the  kindling  eyes 
Too  soon  to  commerce  with  the  skies. 
It  flickers  on  the  lips  and  cheek. 
She  cannot  rise — she  may  not  speak; 
But,  as  the  old  man,  reverent,  stands, 
She  takes  the  little  slender  hands. 
Sets  them  within  the  trembling  grasp 
Which  tightens  with  protecting  clasp ; 
Then,  by  the  final  effort  spent. 
Breathes  forth  her  spirit,  all  content. 


Canio  XXL 


THE  DREAM  FULFILLED. 


The  solemn  looks  which  witness  lent — 

The  silence  round  that  lifeless  dust, 
As  with  a  holy  sacrament, 

Had  sealed  that  sacred,  parting  trust. 
The  Baron,  'mid  the  mute  surprise, 
Closes  himself  the  sightless  eyes. 
Then,  with  that  aspect  resolute 
Which  brooks  nor  question  nor  dispute, 
Issues  to  those  who  round  him  stand, 
In  accents  low,  each  brief  command; 
Provides  for  all  with  fitting  care ; 
Assigns  to  each  her  proper  share — 
Attention  meet,  protection  sure, 
The  funeral  rites  and  sepulture. 


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I/O  KINDESLIEBE. 

Low-seated  by  that  silent  coiich, 
Upon  the  child  he  lays  a  touch, 
So  soft  and  tender  as  to  leave 
No  place  for  doubt,  no  room  to  grieve. 
All  gently  striving  to  unbind 
The  arms  around  the  corse  entwined. 
He  takes  the  child  all  tenderly 
And  draws  her,  passive,  to  his  knee. 
He  wreathes  her  arms  about  his  neck — 
Which,  ne'er  did  fairer  collar  deck — 
And  lays  her  drooping  head  to  rest 
Upon  his  strong  and  craving  breast, 
Just  where  the  star,  resplendent,  gleams  : 
And  never  had  its  proudest  beams 
Gleamed  forth  more  beauteous  on  the  sight, 
Or  shone  with  more  of  lustre  bright, 
Than  those  moist  eyes  and  wistful  face, 
So  full  of  sorrow's  touching  grace, 
Which  'neath  those  locks  so  full  and  free 
Upturn  to  his  so  timidly. 

How  paint  the  feelings  of  the  child, 
As  now,  adown  the  steep  hillside, 

She  leaves  the  dear,  congenial  wild, 
Clinging  all  closely  to  her  guide 


i 


THE    DREAM    FULFILLED. 

With  instinct  true,  to  childhood  known, 
And  not  reserved  for  brute  alone? 
Unmindful  they  of  aught  beside — 
What  eye  might  scorn,  or  lip  deride ; 
Each  found  in  each  a  something  more 
Than  either  e'er  had  found  before; 
Both  felt  it  good  for  them  to  be 
Thus  in  each  othec's  company. 

Together  down  the  tortuous  road 
They  sought  the  Baron's  proud  abode. 
Together  through  the  village  passed, 
Where  many  a  curious  glance  was  cast. 
What  tender  tie  these  twain  could  hold  ? 
And  she,  so  young,  and  he,  so  old ; 
He,  of  so  lofty  a  degree. 
And  she,  a  child  of  penury; 
He,  with  the  star  upon  his  breast, 
And  she,  in  rustic  habit  drest. 

But,  gazing  in  the  saddened  face 
Where  pity,  sweet,  she  yet  can  trace, 
She  heeds  not  now,  with  spirit  sore. 
Her  simple  raiment,  scorned  before — 
Her  tangled  locks  of  ruddy  hair — 
Her  shapely  limbs,  so  brown  and  bare. 


171 


172  kindesliebp:. 

The  deeper  anguish  swallows  all, 
And  leaves  no  space  for  troubles  small. 
But  in  her  loneliness  and  grief — 
His  presence  brings  a  sweet  relief. 
Of  every  natural  tie  bereft — 
With  not  one  kindred  bosom  left 
On  which  to  lean  her  childish  head — 
On  which  her  welling  tears  to  shed. 
She,  like  the  little  tendril,  flings 

Her  hopes  around  the  friendly  form, 
Which  now  alone  protection  brings — 

Her  only  refuge  from  the  storm. 

And  little  doth  the  Baron  reck 
What  clothes  his  little  charge  bedeck. 
One  hand  within  his  own  enclasped. 
He  heeds  not  that  the  other  grasped, 
All  loosely  bound,  her  little  hoard 
Of  treasures,  long  so  safely  stored. 
He  sees  alone  the  streaming  hair — 
The  beaming  brow — the  visage  fair — 
The  large  blue  orbs,  so  deep  and  clear, 
Which  seem,  as  from  another  sphere. 
To  bring  again  from  yonder  skies 
His  "  liebe  kleine  Edelweiss." 

*l*  "P  ▼  T*  n*  *^  '^  I* 


L 


THE    DREAM    FULFILLED.  1 73 

And  now  the  village  lies  behind. 

The  bridge  that  spans  the  stream  is  crossed. 
Through  avenues  with  lindens  lined, 

The  child  moves  on,  in  wonder  lost. 
They  pass  beneath  the  frowning  gate 

Which  oft  had  turned  the  tide  of  war, 
Still  girt  with  much  of  ancient  state 

Though  marked  by  many  a  dint  and  scar ; 
Where  on  the  'scutcheon,  gray  and  old. 
Wrought  with  enamel  and  with  gold, 
Some  ling'ring  traces,  yet  did  shine, 
Of  power  which  graced  the  ancient  line. 

In  spite  of  all  her  ewe  and  fears, 
E'en  through  the  mist  of  unshed  tears, 
She  notes  how  changed  was  all  the  scene 
Where  once  the  reign  of  taste  had  been. 
Here  rose  the  grass  above  the  knees. 
Here  bowed  to  earth  the  ancient  trees. 
Oppressed  beneath  the  heavy  weight 
Of  unpruned  limbs,  left  desolate. 
Here,  all  untrimmed,  the  garden  beds. 
Across  the  walks  the  briar  spreads. 
And  many  a  vase  of  sculptured  stone — 
Abloom  with  flowers  in  days  by-gone — 
Stands  weather-stained  and  moss  o'ergrown. 


1/4  KINDESLIEBE. 

Here,  scarce  above  the  fountain's  brim, 
The  sluggish  waters  slowly  ooze, 

Once  leaping  o'er  the  marble  rim 
A  grateful  coolness  to  diffuse, 

And,  sparkling  in  the  changeful  light. 

Each  drop,  with  flash  of  diamond,  bright. 

They  pass  within  the  castle  door. 
They  tread  the  tesselated  floor, 
Awaking  echoes,  as  they  go, 
That  seem  to  speak  of  long  ago. 
From  many  a  picture,  fair  and  bright — 

From  many  an  efifigy  of  stone, 
Shine  features,  fine,  and  eyes  whose  light 

Find  their  reflection  in  her  own. 
Though  all  unconscious  of  her  claim 
To  share  their  titles  or  their  name. 

Unheeded  still,  their  footsteps  fall, 
In  that  well-nigh  deserted  hall, 
Where  once  the  belted  barons  sate 
Begirt  with  pageantry  and  state ; 
And  wassail  shout  and  laughter  gay 
Full  oft  was  heard  till  break  of  day, 
And  children  sported  mid  the  throng, 
And  echoed  loud  the  battle-song. 


THE    DREAM    FULFILLED.  1/5 

No  liveried  lackeys  line  the  way 
Their  servile  deference  to  pay. 
Amid  the  shadows,  softly  blent, 
The  Baron's  eyes  are  downward  bent; 
The  child's  with  wonder  larger  grow 
As  hand  in  hand  they,  silent,  go 
Adown  those  once  resplendent  halls, 
Where  still  upon  the  tarnished  walls 
May  yet  be  seen  in  proud  display 
The  spoils  of  many  a  bloody  fray ; 
Where  stalwart  knights,  in  armor  drest, 
Stand,  lifelike,  forth  with  helm  and  crest, 
Which  oft,  like  storm-bird  in  the  sky, 
Had  gleamed  above  the  conflict  high. 

Anon  they  reach  an  open  door 
With  crimson  portiere  draped  before. 
The  Baron,  silent,  leads  the  way 
Where,  sad,  he  broods  from  day  to  day 
In  sombre  silence — painful  thought, 
Little  doing — heeding  naught. 
Only  busy  with  the  past — 
Counting  o'er  the  blossoms  cast 
From  off  that  proud  ancestral  tree. 
Of  which  the  last  on  earth  is  he. 
Doomed  now  to  hopeless  misery. 


1/6 


KINDESLIEBE. 


An  antique  chamber,  oaken  cei'ed, 

With  panels,  wrought  with  taste  and  care ; 

With  storied  windows  that  revealed 
In  rich  designs  a  genius  rare ; 

With  pictures  limned  by  master-hands, 

And  treasures  borne  from  distant  lands; 

With  many  a  volume,  richly  dight, 

Of  learning  sage,  or  fancy  bright ; 

With  German  lore  or  wit  of  France  ; 

With  monkish  legend-  gay  romance, 

And  all  that  wealth  and  taste  can  give 

To  make  it  privilege  to  live. 


Beside  the  oriel,  through  whose  panes 
The  sunset  falls  in  crimson  stains 
Upon  the  polished  oaken  floor, 
And  all  the  chamber's  goodly  store, 
Was  set  a  carved  ebon  chair, 
High-wrought,  and  of  a  iinish  rare. 
Upon  its  back,  in  filigree — 
Once  a  bright  blaze  of  heraldry — 
Was  traced  in  exquisite  design 
The  arms  of  each  converging  line 
That  centred  in  that  aged  form 
Alone  had  braved  foul  fortune's  storm. 


THE    DREAM    FULFILLED.  ijy 

And  now,  within  its  close  embrace, 
He  bows  his  head  a  Httle  space. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  folded  h-nds 
The  mountain-child  before  him  stands  ; 
Her  homespun  raiment,  coarse  and  spare— 
Her  neck  and  limbs  and  feet  still  bare  ; 
But  in  the  meshes  of  her  hair, 

And  on  her  brow  and  lips  and  cheek 
The  sunbeams  weave  such  colors  rare 

As  human  art  may  vainly  seek. 

She  seems  no  more  a  peasant  child 
Brought  from  some  lonely,  rocky  wild  • 
But  a  "  creation  "  such  as,  vain, 
Hath  filled  full  many  an  artist's  brain 
Who  yet  hath  lacked  the  taste  and  skill 
To  make  its  charms  the  canvas  fill. 
It  seems  to  glorify  the  room- 
Banish  the  all-pervading  gloom. 
And  tell  of  happiness  in  store 
When  fell  despair  shall  blight  no  n.ore. 

And  when  the  old  man  fain  would  raise 
His  drooping  head,  and  fondly  gaze, 
Perchance  these  thoughts  thrill   through  his 
heart, 

And  bid  the  brooding  clouds  depart  • 
9 


178 


KINDKSLIEBE. 


Or,  threading  back  the  lapse  of  years — 
With  all  their  sorrows,  pains  and  fears — 
He  sees  the  lost  child  of  his  love 
Come  down  to  bless  him  from  above — 
To  bid  his  spirit's  yearning  cease, 
And  crown  his  latest  hours  with  peace. 

Emotions,  long  suppressed,  arise 

And  surge  within  his  bosom  lone  : 
They  beam  a  welcome  from  his  eyes — ■ 
They  thrill  in  every  look  and  tone  ; 
As,  flinging  wide  his  hung'ring  arms, 
He  bids  her  cease  her  vain  alarms. 
And,  like  his  long-lost  darling,  come 
To  warm  and  cheer  an  old  man's  home. 


The  outstretched  arms — the  pleading  look, 
No  other  answer  seemed  to  brook. 
With  one  loud  sob  of  joy  and  grief — 
One  deep-drawn  sigh  of  sweet  relief; 
With  fond,  shy  look  and  mantling  face, 
She  springs  into  his  warm  embrace. 
Finding  at  last  a  fitting  rest 
Upon  that  yearning,  faithful  breast. 


THE    DREAM    FULFILLED. 


1/9 


Time  fails  to  tell 
How,  'ncath  her  gentle,  loving  reign, 
The  wither'd  heart  grew  young  again  ; 
How,  soon,  the  darkness  disappeared 
And  all  the  dull  horizon  cleared  ; 
How,  through  the  hamlets  far  and  wide, 
By  kindly  hands,  were  wants  supplied  ; 
How,  under  wise  and  loving  rule, 
Throve  cottage  home  and  village  school ; 
How,  hope  and  courage,  well-nigh  spent. 
Revived,  and  flourished  sweet  content. 


How,  once  again,  that  ancient  hall 

Reechoed  with  the  pleasant  sound 
Of  laughter,  as  the  evenings  fall 
In  pallid  mists  on  all  around, 
Or  when  the  gathering  tempest's  shout 
Forbids  all  contact  from  without. 
How,  once  again,  the  gardens  fair 
Grew  bright  with  blossoms  rich  and  rare  ; 
How,  fountains  glittered  in  the  light. 
Whilst,  on  the  turf,  so  soft  and  bright. 
Were  groups  of  sportive  children  seen. 
Enlivening  the  festive  scene. 
As  old  and  young,  with  heart  and  voice, 
In  sweet  domestic  love,  rejoice. 


i8o 


KINDESLIEBE. 


How,  Rudcrsdorf's  stern,  gloomy  lord-.— 
Again  to  hopeful  life  restored — 
No  more  in  solitude  repined, 
But  did  increasing  honor  find 
Around  the  throne  and  'mid  his  peers, 
A  goodly  sight,  for  all  his  years. 
How,  something  of  its  ancient  state 
Did  still  upon  the  castle  wait. 
With  less  of  coldness  and  of  pride. 

And  more  of  kindness  and  of  love, 
That  made  its  influence  far  and  wide 

A  benison  from  Heaven  above. 
How — once,  where  curses,  loud  and  deep, 

Were  heard  against  th'  unfeeling  hand 
That  seemed  with  iron  hold  to  keep 

The  peasants  serfs  upon  the  land — 
Came  smiles,  and  tears,  and  blessings  sv/eet, 
Thankful  a  milder  rule  to  greet. 

^r  T»  tv  *!*  1*  •I*  t*  1* 

First,  as  a  little  waif,  upcast 
Upon  the  shore  by  tempest-blast, 
And  for  the  memories  of  the  Past, 

He  took  the  child  into  his  heart ; 
Nor  did  he  know  how  strangely  fast 

She  won  him  by  each  childish  art. 


TIIK    DREAM    FULFILLED. 


l8i 


'Twas  only  after  years  had  flown, 

And  she  into  his  life  had  grown 

So  deeply  as  to  know  no  fear 

That  aught,  his  love,  could  quench  or  sear. 

He  chanced  to  note  her  little  store — 

Which  ne'er  had  met  his  gaze  before — 

The  necklet  with  its  links  of  gold, 

The  jeweled  locket  which  did  hold 

The  face  of  her,  in  days  gone  by, 

Wept  with  so  sore  an  agony. 

Ah  !  then,  he  knew,  by  witness  strong, 

That  righted  was  the  bitter  wrong 

Which,  through  these  years  of  woe  and  pain, 

A  burden  on  his  soul  had  lain — 

That,  in  the  child  whose  tender  grace 

Had  filled  his  days  with  new  delight, 
Was  one  who,  in  his  heart,  her  place 

Held  by  inalienable  right. 

And  years  go  by  on  lightsome  wing, 
And  each  has  meed  of  peace  to  bring. 
Till  on  one  fair,  auspicious  day. 
When  earth  was  clothed  in  garlands  gay. 
Upon  the  balmy  air  there  swells 
The  happy  sound  of  wedding-bells  ; 


K\JM.  ^MM        m  V  I/1AI 


copies  of  the  work  forw 

Such  a  recognition  is  b; 

of  attainment,  and  cont 

more  valuable  on   this 

following  is  an  exact  cc 

ment  submitted  to  us  : 

Kaibeblich  Deutsce 
Washington,  Jai 

Rev.   Henry  Faulkner 
Avon,  N.  Y.— 

Dear  Sir,  — By  order 
Government  I  have  th( 
you  tha»  His  Majesty,  th 
Her  Majesty,  the  Empres 
been  so  gracious  as  to  a( 
unies  of  your  work,  "  K 
mance  of  Fatherland,  wl 
sented  to  them.  I  am  li 
express  to  you  herewith ' 
Imperial  Majesties. 

Very  respec 

Charge  D' Affaires  ot  th( 


t 


\ 


(8  of  the  work  forwarded   to   them, 

a  recognition  is  by  no  means   easy 

tainnient,  and  consequently   is   the 

!  valuable  on   this  account.     The 

wing  is  an  exact  copy  of  the  docu- 

i  submitted  to  us  : 

Kaibeblich  Deutsche  Gesandtbchaft, 
Washington,  January  7th,  1892. 

Henry  Faulkner  Darnell,   D.   D., 
on,  N.  Y.- 

ar  Sir,  — By  order  of  the  Imperial 
rnment  I  have  the  honor  to  inform 
iha*  His  Majesty,  the  Emperor,  as  also 
Majesty,  the  Empress  Frederick,  hfive 
so  gracious  as  to  accept  the  two  vol- 
}  of  your  ^7Fork,  "  Kindesliebe,"  a  Ro- 
se of  Fatherland,  which  you  have  pre. 
!d  to  them.  I  am  likewise  charged  to 
ess  to  you  herewith  the  thanks  of  their 
jrial  Majesties. 

Very  respectfully, 

A.  V,  MUMM, 
ge  D'Aflfaires  ot  the  German  Empire. 


Wc  stay  the  beating 
And  v:  th  the  setting  ol 

Glance  back  upon  th| 
Then,  to  the  failing  eye 
How  small  the  space  tl| 
How  fine  the  interval  tl| 
These  phases  found  in 
How  brief  the  spaces  till 
These  stations  on  the  fl 


From  ihe  A-'on  Springs  Herald, 

A   meb    tiompllment     to     an    ATon 
Antlior. 


That  "  a  love  of  literature  makes  the 
whole  world  akin"  has  been  proved 
time  and  time  again.  We  are  pleased 
to  be  able  to  record  a  remarkable  in- 
stance of  this  in  the  case  of  a  work  re- 
cently put  forth  by  an  author  well 
known  in  this  vicinity.  The  latest  pub- 
lication of  the  Rev.  H.  F.  Darnall,  is  a 
poetical  romance,  entitled  "  Kindes- 
liebe."  a  romance  of  Fatherland,  which 
has  already  been  accorded  a  hearty  wel- 
come in  this  country.  It  is  now  our 
privilege  to  put  on  record  the  following 
letter  from  the  charge'  d'  affaires  of  the 
German  Empire,  in  which  it  is  an- 
nounced that  the  above  mentioned 
work  has  been  graciously  accepted  by 
the  Emperor  William  and  the  Empress 
Frederick  of  Germany,  who  have  in  due 
form  returned  their  thanks  for  the 
copies  of  the  work  forwarded  to  them. 
Such  a  recognition  is  by  no  means  easy 
of  attainment,  and  consequently  is  the 
more  valuable  on  this  account.  The 
following  is  an  exact  copy  of  the  docu- 
ment submitted  to  us  : 

Kaiserlich  Deutsche  Gesandtschaft, 
Washington,  January  7th,  1892. 

Rev.   Henby  Faulkner  Darnell,   D.   D., 
Avon,  N.  Y.— 

Dear  Sir,  — By  order  of  the  Imperial 
Government  I  have  the  honor  to  inform 
you  tha»  His  Majesty,  the  Emperor,  as  a)so 
Her  Majesty,  the  Empress  Frederick,  have 
been  so  gracious  as  to  accept  the  two  vol- 
umes of  your  work,  *'  Kindesliebe,"  a  Ro- 
mance of  Fathorland,  which  you  have  pre. 
sented  to  them.  I  am  likewise  charged  to 
express  to  you  herewith  the  thanks  of  their 
Imperial  Majesties. 

Very  respectfully, 
^  A.  V.  MUMM, 

Oharge  D' Affaires  ot  the  German  Empire. 


